


Saints and Sinners

by AngeliaDark



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Angel Dust is Angel Dust, Angel Dust is underage for a good majority, Angel Dust-Typical Sexual Content (Hazbin Hotel), But definitely romantic, Cannibalism, M/M, Murder, Partners in Crime, Priest Alastor, he really tried, murderers and cannibals justifying themselves, non-sexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeliaDark/pseuds/AngeliaDark
Summary: Alastor tried, oh how he tried.  He had been so good for so many years, doing the Lord's work and keeping his hunger in check.  And then the boy came, a devil child, and unleashed everything he kept hidden away.Angelo indulged in every sin of the flesh, and no one was immune to his devil's charms.  No one but that priest that smiled without fail.  In a world full of weak sinners, he found a true saint among them.A saint and a sinner, cleansing the world one soul at a time.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 140
Kudos: 800





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, I might change the title later if one comes to me. It's a placeholder, if anything.

Alastor first felt his calling when he was still but a boy.

It was soon after his mother began taking him to church more frequently. He hadn't understood the sudden need to go when he was young, but looking back, he supposed she was right to see the signs of his sickness emerging. Children right in the mind weren't supposed to enjoy trapping and killing small animals with a hammer, or staring in wonder through the butcher shop window whilst out in town.

He frequently saw his mother speaking with the priest of their small church, and soon after he was spending more time studying his catechisms before he set into his first confession. 

He had his list of sins with him that his mother helped him transcribe. He spoke of enjoying harm on creatures smaller than himself. He spoke of an unending hunger his mother's cooking could not fill. He spoke of ill will toward other children. 

He recanted the Act of Contrition perfectly. He was told what prayers to say. He exited and met his mother back at the doors, and they walked home together in silence.

The following Sunday, he received his first communion, the day of his eleventh birthday. What better way to spend his birthday, his mother told him.

He believed her.

He believed that this way, he could hold his feelings back. He could stay his hand. He could stop smiling at the sight of blood.

He could stop dreaming of a massive creature with a deer skull and an open chest cavity beckoning him.

He confessed, he prayed, he studied.

And then at fourteen, Alastor decided what he wanted to do.

Such a young one in seminary, many thought as they looked upon the boy whom many felt would belong in the local high school rather than here. Sixteen, they were told, having been personally involved in his hometown parish for two years and was sent with recommendations of the priest and the bishop of his district. A 'true calling', was the frequent use of phrase to describe the dedication of Alastor LeBlanc.

Yet still, despite the boy's excelling studies, tireless dedication, and earnest nature, there was something that bothered the staff and students alike. 

Alastor looked like a model citizen, a model human being. Tall, slim, large russet eyes, effortlessly neat dark brown hair. He looked so plain yet he shone like a beacon. Stood out like a star. Some said it was his voice, a gift that carried out and made all want to stop and listen. 'A voice for radio', some would say, 'and what a waste'. Others still felt that it was his smile.

Alastor always -ALWAYS- smiled. 

Even when serious and receiving communion, attending confession, and deep in prayer, the edges of his mouth were always quirked upwards ever-so-slightly. Endlessly amused, endlessly joyful at every little thing.

It was brought up by a vicar who had been overseeing the education of the youngest seminary student, seeing the boy walk into his office and sit down, eyes bright and cheerful behind his glasses. That smile on his face.

The answer Alastor gave him. 

"Father Samuel, I only smile because I am so happy to serve. Because I am so grateful to be here. Knowing that I am doing the Lord's work, His plan for me...how can I NOT smile?"

His answer was so open. So earnest. So much of the right answer.

But the vicar was troubled by it long after Alastor left.

Alastor was twenty-one when he was ordained as a deacon. He was sent back to his hometown church to serve, and serve he did. 

He presided over his mother's funeral. 

He took care of everything, down to the most minute details of her wishes. Cremation, and her ashes buried in the family plot of a cemetery outside of town. He did everything with a smile, and was praised by the head priest and parish-goers alike for his strength, faith, and compassion.

After the funeral, when he returned to his childhood home, he fell to his knees and vomited.

He cried. 

He clutched at a knife in the kitchen for several long, heavy moments, his hand shaking violently as he contemplated it and then put it away for good.

When he slept, he dreamed of a hulking creature, a deer skull atop its head and its chest cavity opened and bleeding.

_"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine days since my last confession. I am a child still who sees a demon of my own making."_

He fasted for three days to starve the demon out. He did not dream of it again after the third day.

He is twenty-two when he is ordained as a priest. Everyone in attendance sees the serene smile on his face and believes it to be a sign of his true calling coming to fruition. Parish-goers see him and trust him with their lives, their secrets. Father Alastor does not judge, not even a little. 

How can he, when he has seen the literal demon of his sins in his dreams?

Father Alastor is twenty-four when he learns that the demon -the foul, hungry creature- returns strongest around people. Not just 'people' in general, but many people. A large crowd of people. A church full of people, a town full of people. 

People make him hungry.

He hides his thinness under his vestments from his fasting to starve the demon away again. He prays for something -anything- to aid him in starving the demon further.

Father Alastor is twenty-five when his prayers are answered.

It's so far away, all the way in rural Pennsylvania where there was a small parish with a high overturn rate for those in need to help the ones who need it most. Tucked back in the woods two hours away from any major town with only a tiny community with even fewer Catholics devoted enough to attend any form of church, the parish also functioned as a place for high-risk patients in need of spiritual healing.

Exorcisms included.

Father Alastor took it, needing only two suitcases to pack up his meager life and board the train toward his new life.

The place was like something out of a horror novel. From the train station, it was a long cab ride through winding dirt roads into thicker and thicker woods, and then he was let out in front of a footbridge over a stream to finish the journey. The sky was overcast and it was getting quite cold, much colder than Father Alastor was used to in Louisiana. He thanked the cab driver with a smile and took up his suitcases, crossing the bridge into the heavy thickness of the woods, seeing a path ahead that was lined with candle lanterns yet to be lit. 

Thunder rumbled overhead, but he made no move to quicken his pace and miss anything he might need to see at a moment's time. He could hear animals all around him, and his thoughts went to wondering about possibly having to hunt his own meals here.

At last, he could see the parish ahead, an old stone building two stories tall lit only by candle light and fireplace. Gravestones dotted here and there, how few being a testament to the rural location. He walked up to the doors and put a suitcase down to politely knock.

He patiently waited until the door was opened and an older priest looked upon him, his greyed, dour appearance matching the parish itself quite well. 

"...you are Father Alastor," he stated, though Father Alastor could hear the incredulous question in his voice. 

"That I am, Father Ellis," Father Alastor replied cheerfully. Little more needed to be said as the elder priest stepped aside to let Father Alastor inside.

Father Alastor was twenty-six when he was at home to his prayers, his vows of poverty, and his solitude, only two priests and five devoted parish-goers as his company, and even then it was sparse. He took up his own chores and duties well, keeping the place spotless, utilizing every skill his mother taught him in cooking and mending to keep everything tidy and homey.

One of his parishioners, an elderly woman who had lived in this area her entire life, called him the breath of life. The brightness in all of the bleakness, and his smile one sent by the Lord Himself.

"Saint Katharine spoke to me," she said, touching his face. "She said you would do wonders."

Father Alastor laughed softly. "I only do what our Lord has set me to do," he replied. "That is wondrous enough for me."

And it was. He had not felt the burden of the demon in a year.

Father Alastor was twenty-eight, greeting two newer parishioners, lighting the evening candles, and thinking of what to make for dinner later when the peace he has come to love and enjoy for three years snuffs out like the his lighting wick as Father Ellis calls him to the back to speak to him.

He is but hours away from meeting the devil himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Father Ellis looked grim as he recanted the expectations to arrive with their newest 'guest', though Father Alastor somewhat took it with a grain of salt. Their humble parish had hosted a number of 'guests' coming and going in the three years he'd been here, from unwed teenage mothers to troubled children of important political figures looking to get clean from drugs or alcohol, and even one or two people who were in need of an exorcism and severe spiritual cleansing. 

All of them, Father Alastor had treated with the utmost kindness and respect. They were lost children of God, and were not as fortunate as himself to have found their path in life. 

This one, however, seemed new.

"An archbishop suggested this parish to cleanse this child of the demon within him," Father Ellis said, his voice grave and eyes troubled. "The boy's parents gave the Church full custody of him, to do what needs to be done. From the archbishop's message, I could feel the evil he has had to witness coming from this...child."

"A child in need, Father Ellis," Father Alastor said with a soft smile. "Wrought with demons or no, wickedness can be expelled through the power and glory of our Lord." He stood. "I will prepare a room for him."

Father Ellis nodded. "Strengthen your resolve and fasten your faith, Father Alastor," he said, crossing himself. "We mustn't let evil loose into this parish."

Father Alastor smiled. "Of course not," he replied, leaving to fix up the room for their guest.

Evil, he thought. How subjective and curious to think that a child of thirteen could be an avatar of such a thing.

It was late at night when their guest arrived, flanked on both sides by two nuns and a veil over his face. Father Alastor followed his superior to the sanctuary, making a soft sound of curiosity. "Escorted by nuns?" he asked quietly.

Father Ellis's jaw was tight. "The boy has no sight for women," he replied distastefully. "He has been beset by a wicked spirit of sodomy."

Father Alastor said nothing, but gave a soft mental sigh. He honestly had no opinion of homosexuality one way or the other despite the gospel's rejection of it. One heard many things in the confessional booth, especially back in Louisiana, and in his small community it was easy to match voices to faces. Even easier to match that face to a man grieving for the death of his lover due to the true wicked act of a hateful slaying. 

He himself felt nothing for either sex. So many times had he been over conferences back in seminary about temptation and vows of chastity, and had earnestly conveyed no desire for men or women or sex with either. It took years for him to be believed, though that mattered little to him. He knew what he felt, and it was nothing. 

It was in that vein of things that he felt even less privy to lay any form of judgement on another for whom they lusted or even loved.

A boy of thirteen showing interest in another boy has hardly a reason to proclaim him possessed by a demon of Sodom.

He would do what he always did to those who came here. He would show them compassion and strength, talk them through their weaknesses and troubles, help them find their way once more, if even just to give them the lantern for them to walk the rest of the way themselves in the darkness. Every little bit helped. 

Father Alastor took a breath and let it out, following Father Ellis into the room to look upon the 'demon' in question.

He almost felt his breath catch in his throat.

One of the accompanying nuns took the veil off of the boy, revealing the face of an angel. Soft pale skin without a mark or a mar, face dotted with freckles, and large dark blue eyes that seemed to glow in the candle light. Thick light blond hair almost created a halo around his head, completing the absolute cherubim look.

It was not the absolute beauty that took Father Alastor's breath away, however.

It was the smile the boy had on his face.

"So, this place ain't just gonna be full of girls," the boy said, his New York accent thick and his voice playful as his blue eyes flicked between Father Ellis, Father Alastor, and Deacon William. "Guess beggars can't be choosers here, eh?"

Father Ellis stepped forth, crossing himself and the air in front of the boy. "You will leave this child be, demon," he recanted. "You will be returned to the depths of Hell from whence you came, in the name of the Father, the Son, and -"

" -and th' Holy fuckin' Spirit," the boy recanted with a roll of his eyes. "Got anything NEW to say that I haven't had barked at me already?" He crossed his arms, pointedly turning away. "Yer wastin' yer time, ain't nothin' wrong with me that stupid prayers can fix, so unless one o' you's wants to get on yer knees for another reason, let me unpack."

The five adults looked at one another, the two nuns appearing almost used to such verbal filth coming from the mouth of a child. Father Alastor could almost believe now that something wasn't entirely right with the boy, and had to wrack his mind with new ways to get through to the child without having to resort to an actual exorcism. He turned to follow the others out -the nuns having a room of their own for the time the child was here- when the boy spoke again.

"Hey, Padre."

Father Alastor glanced behind him, feeling his breath catch again when the boy's smile -a sharp wicked thing for such an angelic face- gleamed at him. 

"...you've got th' devil inside you too, doncha?"

Images, memories of a beast with a deer skull and an open, starving chest cavity came flooding back for a split second before Father Alastor silently vacated the room, closing the door behind him.

Angelo Martin Alessandro Ragno, was the boy's Christian name. That and his face were the only decent things about him, according to the reports.

He had been a troubled child for a year already, having been caught smoking in school, and then more trouble was found when the janitor walked in on Angelo orally servicing a teacher. That had been swept out as the teacher's fault, despite a good number of older kids in school speaking up about Angelo offering sexual favors in return for money or cigarettes.

The straw that finally broke the camel's back and sent the boy here was a stint in another parish, where apparently beating the devil out of the boy only culminated in sexual gratification and ended with a deacon being excommunicated for engaging in sodomy with Angelo. 

And Angelo had apparently just offered to give the ex-deacon his number for when he came back from Pennsylvania.

Reading over it made Father Alastor physically ill. Truly, there HAD to be a demon in this child, one that -

_"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine days since my last confession. I am a child still who sees a demon of my own making."_

**_"You've got th' devil inside you too, doncha?"_ **

Father Alastor excused himself, feeling lightheaded as he went outside to the lantern-lit stone altar for passersby. He stumbled, falling to his knees and clenching his hands into the stone beneath him as he felt that beast of his nightmares begin to stir. he shook his head hard, clenching his eyes shut as he clasped his hands tightly, feeling them tremble.

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified; died, and was buried. He descended into Hell; the third day He arose again from the dead; He ascended into Heaven, sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting, Amen..."

He looked up at the altar, and felt tears drip down his face, the beast driven back at least a little, enough for him to think and breathe. "A test of faith..." he murmured, sitting back on his heels and letting his shoulders drop. A smile spread over his face again, effortless as ever. "He was allowed to run with demons for too long. No one there to guide him back to Your light."

Father Alastor could almost see the Hell that would have been his life now. If his mother, his priest, hadn't guided him away from the beast inside of him. The hunger that could have never been sated. These hands clasped in prayer instead clutching a knife. Tearing lives asunder instead of saving them.

He could not let such a fate fall to anyone if he could help it.

"He will be saved," he swore, bowing his head again. "I will guide him to You, make him see the evil of his ways so he will enter Your service, Amen."


	3. Chapter 3

A test of faith, indeed. 

Angelo was tended to by primarily the nuns who rarely spoke to him despite his chatty nature, but Father Alastor put in what time he could as well with the boy. He had been warned about Angelo's promiscuity, to which Father Alastor kindly thanked and assuaged their worries.

It was not Angelo's sexuality at all what he was spiritually preparing against.

_"You've got th' devil in you too, doncha?"_

Could it really be KNOWN, Father Alastor thought, having fasted for three days again to starve back that new resurgence of the beast. Was it truly possible for others with something such as this just KNOWING, able to see it in others?

Or perhaps the boy was bluffing. 

Angelo was a chatty person, and said things to get under people's skin. Father Alastor saw this the hard way -literally- when Angelo walked right out of the bathroom stark naked mentioning something about one of the Sisters taking too long with a towel and he was freezing. No amount of Father Ellis telling him to stand in the cold end of the hallway for an hour would deter him, regardless of what Father Alastor might have said.

Either way, it was October and the only way to stay warm in the parish was with layers and a fireplace, and Father Alastor would not allow a child, demon-ridden as he may be, suffer for it. He bypassed the Sisters who were sorting out the boy's laundry, and found Angelo standing by the corner in the dead-end of the hall, arms crossed over himself not from shame but from the cold. Angelo looked up when Father Alastor came closer, that same devilish smile crossing his features. 

"Come to get a good look, Padre?" he asked, unfolding his arms. Father Alastor shook his head with a smile of his own and held out a blanket.

"No," he replied easily. "But I won't have you catching your death of cold from something as paltry as a punishment." He unfolded it and held it out. 

A flicker of something passed over Angelo's eyes before they returned to the dark coolness. "Trust me, this ain't even th' WORST you's all done to me," he said, tossing his halo of hair. "Sometimes I think you repressed fuckers actually LOVE dishin' out pain." He turned around, jutting his right hip to the side to show a barely-healed set of scars on his backside and thigh. "Got these babies from a good caning before I got here. Boy, did Father Don lose his shit when he found out I came all over his robes from it!" He laughed, the sound both angelic and wicked. He collected himself, looking back at Father Alastor with amusement. 

"What's a little breeze between my legs compared t' somethin' like THAT? Bring on th' exorcism, Padre, I can't wait t' see what you restrain me with."

He laughed again, leaving Father Alastor to quickly put the blanket around the boy and make his way off, a hand trailing to his stomach.

The idea of a caning so bad it cut flesh and drew blood...

Father Alastor was sure that it wasn't his fasting that was opening a gaping hole in his hunger now.

Not a thing grew easier with Angelo there in the parish.

One of the Sisters had to leave for her own health, with both the dreary weather and Angelo constantly badgering her. She broke down into hysterical tears in front of the altar, praying loudly for safety from the demon inside of the boy. 

Angelo himself did not react to any form of treatment given to him other than derision or arousal. He'd gone through two exorcisms already that Father Alastor had assisted in, with no effect at all.

No effect on Angelo, anyway. 

Sometimes Angelo would pull at the restraints to give himself a show and draw blood. The sight of it would always -ALWAYS- do something to make the void in Father Alastor's stomach open wider. 

A need to see MORE.

The need to see being followed by more fasting, more prayer, more hunger.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been twelve days since my last confession. I am guilty of the sin of gluttony."

Father Alastor still smiles, but it is a tired one. It is even more tiresome since their parish happened to have brought in more churchgoers, his hard work and disposition bringing seven more each and every Sunday.

More people. More hunger. More fasting. More prayer. 

He takes to praying at the outside altar for fresh air and solitude at night after long, grueling hours among people, among Angelo. Time to settle in and decompress and spend an hour with God alone.

An hour becomes two. Then three.

Over the course of two months, Father Alastor finds little time for sleep between his prayers and his duties, with little energy to do either from his fasting. With so little energy, he had so little focus. So little rein left on his own hunger.

Prayers could only do so much without the willpower to hold tight to his convictions.

It was simply not a good day for anyone, not even Angelo. 

It was raining, and a parishioner from last mass brought in a flu to almost everyone. Father Alastor was fortunate to be a healthy person in general, and took up the task of caring for everyone else who had it and keeping Angelo away from the sickness. 

(Although, he would tell himself, sickness may help take the edge off of the boy anyway)

Angelo didn't like the rain, especially when it was thundering as it was today. It was too loud in his small room so the boy took to hunkering down in the chapel in the middle of the parish, where the sound was dampened. At least he was out of the way, Father Alastor thought to himself as he busied his hands and mind with tending to the ill clergy and performing his duties within the church itself.

Regardless of the storm, a few devout and guests had come today for confessions and prayer, and Father Alastor had to answer the call. It was winding down anyway when he took confessions, and felt that being in the quiet box, separated from everyone including the sinner, could finally calm his nerves.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession. I feel myself drawn once more to lust."

Father Alastor closed his eyes; he'd heard this before, the most common of sins he himself had never felt before.

"It is that boy that lurks around here, tempting me like a Jezebel."

His eyes snapped open. 

"I confess as recent as today, feeling temptation in lust."

Father Alastor felt his fingers clench into his cassock; he'd seen Angelo all day, and the boy was doing nothing but moping around. Apparently whatever demon the boy had wasn't fond of stormy days. 

For once, Angelo had done nothing to garner someone's lustful gaze. 

On autopilot, Father Alastor said, "Recite the Act of Contrition."

"My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You Whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend with Your help to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ, suffered and died for us, and in His name, my God, have mercy. Amen." 

"Amen. Go with God in peace."

Father Alastor heard the man exit, his eyes flickering to see the end of a dark red coat through the gate. He sat. He waited. 

He thought

He FELT

Anger 

RIGHTEOUS anger.

It burned in his gut, ripping that HUNGER through him.

Father Alastor exited the confession box, numbly looking around. No one was there. Even the sound of rain was pettering out. He turned his head, looking at a glass window pane. 

The curvature of the frame almost looked like deer antlers.

He shook his head, his legs feeling like lead as he made his way out the back to the outdoor altar. Still raining or not, he needed the time outside, the blessed breath of fresh air and solitude of his own rituals. He didn't bother shielding himself from the rain, already knowing the way perfectly to his altar, his sanctuary.

Even in the dark, something caught his peripheral. Father Alastor turned, looking through the darkness and the rain and saw someone up on the trellis outside, looking in. The man in the red coat.

Father Alastor knew the layout of his parish by heart. This man was looking into Angelo's room.

Actively SEARCHING for sin, so soon after confessing it, after putting the blame exclusively on Angelo. 

The hole in his stomach

BURNED

Darting through the darkness, shrouded by his own vestments, he lurched forward and right up, grabbing the tail end of the man's coat and ripping him right off of the trellis and throwing him to the ground.

"REPENT!" The loud roar came from his gut, one hand pinning the man down while the other grabbed a stone. "REPENT YOURSELF OF YOUR SINS!" He was deaf to the cries of the parishioner, hearing only the rain and the roaring of a beast in his ears. Upon hearing no repentance, he brought the stone down. 

"REPENT!"

"REPENT!"

"REPENT!"

Silence suddenly brought him back to the present. The rain had stopped. So had the roaring. All he could really hear was droplets falling from the trees and his own ragged breathing. He looked down.

Even in the dark of night, he could see nothing but red.

The stone fell from his shaking hand, his other raising to his mouth as he slowly stood up. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. It simply couldn't.

A swimming in his head made Father Alastor stumble back, pressing against the side of the parish. 

No.

No please no.

No no no no no no no no no -

"Hey."

Father Alastor's head snapped to the side, seeing Angelo standing by his side. The boy's eyes were wide and knowing.

Truly KNOWING.

Angelo looked between Father Alastor and the dead man on the ground before turning to the back of the parish. "I'll get th' axe, Padre," he said. "Gotta get 'im cut up, yeah? Easier t' hide. T' do away with." He smiled that GRIN at Father Alastor. "I'll do it. I've done it before." He backed to the edge of the parish to where the firewood and accompanied axe was around the corner. "I'll do it."

And then he was gone.

Father Alastor numbly walked along the side of the parish until his hand found the doorknob. He found his way into the building, silently stumbling to the confession box and shutting the door.

"...Bless me Father, for I have sinned..."

The morning came, with crystal clear blue skies, a hard frost on the ground. The flu began to ebb with the clergy. 

Angelo complained about cold bathwater again.

Father Alastor remained in front of the altar as he had been since the night before, mumbling his Act of Contrition over and over and over again.

It was noon before life returned to normal again.

Before Father Alastor felt forgiven of his sin.

Although as far as he could feel, there was no sin he felt needed forgiving. 

    


	4. Chapter 4

Father Alastor wasn't even entirely sure what he thought happened actually happened. Perhaps he DID catch a touch of the flu, he thought to himself. Combined with the fatigue of taking all the responsibilities for himself and his fasting, he had to have imagined it.

He HAD to have. There was no trace of anything outside, no indication that he'd done what he MIGHT have done. Not even Angelo gave indication of being a part of it, the boy behaving as normally as he usually had been. He brought up bread and soup for Angelo, setting it down on the small table, noting that the boy hadn't even gotten up out of bed yet. 

He gave a mental sigh, figuring that Angelo had probably gotten the flu after everyone else, and left the food down to go get a pitcher of water. When he came back, Angelo was awake and sitting up, the lowness of the sheets around his hips indicating he was sleeping nude again. 

Father Alastor sighed out loud. "It's almost December," he said. "You need to dress warmly, especially when you sleep."

"And miss out on nighttime escapades? Why would I deny myself o' THAT, Padre?" Angelo's smile was wide, showing far too much tooth. 

Father Alastor wordlessly rummaged around the drawer, pulling out thermals and a sweater, tossing them onto Angelo's bed. "You'll need a cloak to help keep warm," he remarked. "I can make one from a spare blanket we have. Get dressed and stay dressed. Winters here are much worse than winters in the city."

"Yeah yeah," Angelo groused, slipping out of bed nude with little regard for the cold and pulling on his thermal undergarments and clothes Father Alastor gave him. He tugged on his shoes, giving Father Alastor a sidelong look. "So," he said, still smiling. "You do that often?"

Father Alastor felt his spine stiffen, his smile frozen on his face. "Remind those in our parish of the weather? Often."

Angelo rolled his eyes, tossing his hair; it was growing longer, in need of a cut soon. "Ah, right, playin' it cool," he muttered. "Gotcha. I can keep secrets, Padre." He walked up to Father Alastor's side, a fingertip sliding over the man's hip. "...for a price -" 

Father Alastor's hand snapping out to grab Angelo's wrist in an ironclad hold cut the boy off. Angelo peered up, seeing a flash of brighter red in the priest's russet eyes, a sharp stab of a HUNGRY look before it was gone, and Father Alastor's grip loosened, the priest's smile going genial again. "...dear boy, the only price due is one of your own redemption." 

He tidied Angelo's collar before smoothing Angelo's hair. "You're worth so much more than that demon inside you, child. If only you would let us help you." He stepped back, turning to the door.

"Y'mean like you helpin' me, or me helpin' you? Because there's a difference there."

Father Alastor was silent for only a moment before he proceeded out of Angelo's room. 

It wasn't real it wasn't real the boy was bluffing it wasn't real.

Figured that Angelo wasn't the next one to catch a touch of the flu.

Father Alastor retreated to his room for his own health right at dawn the next morning at the insistence of Sister Myrtle, not knowing how exhausted he was until his head hit the pillow and suddenly it was pitch black. His head felt heavy and his body was sluggish, though he was certain it had to be dehydration and hunger. A quick drink from the ice-cold pitcher on his bedside took care of one of his problems, leaving him to vacate his warm bed for the other.

His steps were weak, leaving him to mostly use the wall for support as he walked. The hallway seemed longer than he remembered, and chalked it up to the cold and his exhaustion, keeping his steps light, not knowing what hour it was precisely and not wanting to awaken anyone.

A slight misstep had him almost knocking over one of the candelabras on a table, letting out a sigh of mild frustration. How how loathed being ill, when his time could be spent on better things. At least he was upright and not feeling very feverish, that was a start and something to be thankful for.

One step at a time. He'd get downstairs, make some food, and feel ten times better with a hot meal in his stomach. A few more hours of rest and then he'd be right as rain. Father Alastor took a deep breath and let it out, making his way further down the hall and past Angelo's room.

Angelo's room that had the door cracked open instead of locked tight as it should be. 

Father Alastor's brow furrowed, definitely not ill enough to miss THAT. For what reason would anyone unlock Angelo's door at this hour, unless something was wrong. Perhaps the boy did catch the flu after all. 

Care for another came before care for himself, he thought, quietly walking to the door and cracking it open further.

He was suddenly made aware of several things all at once that did no services to his already-exhausted psyche. 

Angelo's fireplace was burning brightly, the room warmer than perhaps the rest of the parish combined. It also cast a clear illumination over the room. Scattered about the bed were the familiar vestments of Deacon William. Deacon William himself was on the bed, the sweat on his bare back glistening from the light of the fireplace. Beneath him was Angelo, the boy writhing in near-silent ecstasy as Deacon William thrust into his body almost savagely, hands and nails leaving marks on Angelo's slender thighs.

Father Alastor couldn't quite process this. It had to be a nightmare, brought on by his fever. His hand clenched tightly, nails biting into his palm until he could feel dampness on his fingertips; from sweat or blood, he didn't know. The sting of pain did not change the scene before him, did not assuage his fears, his doubts, 

his ANGER.

The gaping hole of hunger in his gut was almost wrenched wide open, and he could feel the fatigue and fogginess in his body drain away like he was being bled out in a bloodletting. All that left him was a full body-encasing anger. A HUNGER for righteous retribution.

On autopilot, Father Alastor stepped into the room, his footfalls silent among the crackling fireplace and the animal-like groans from his brother in the Lord. The deacon who swore himself to this parish and service to God. 

Who was sinning so badly it stunk of ROT in Father Alastor's nose. 

His eyes flicked to the side, seeing that Deacon William had brought in a fire poker to stoke the flames of warmth and sin in this room, and his hand reached out to enclose around the wrought iron, the weight feeling like the Archangel Michael's sword set to slay the wretched dragon of Hell -

_Alastor looked over the rabbit he'd caught in his homemade trap, beaming brightly as he pinned the small grey creature down and lifted his hammer. He'd eat it later, and Mama would be so proud of him._

The wide black eyes of the rabbit blurred and Father Alastor instead saw dark blue under sweat-soaked pale blond hair. 

Looking right at him. 

Glimmering with KNOWING.

Almost with PRIDE.

And Father Alastor was a child again, swinging his hammer down hard to kill his prey.

He was a younger man, sobbing after his mother's funeral, grasping the knife in his hand.

He was a priest confessing his sins.

He was just a man, staring at that beast. That looming creature with a deer skull and an open chest cavity.

And he could now see that its long arms were open wide as though welcoming him. 

The viscera inside the open chest smelled like a feast fit for a king, and everything

was RED.

A sickening crack brought Father Alastor back to the present, only the sound of the fire behind him and his ragged breathing filling his ears. The weight of the wrought iron poker in his hands, the smell of blood permeating the room. His chest heaved, looking down and seeing Deacon William's back lacerated open, blood EVERYWHERE.

Beneath that, he saw Angelo's cherubim face and hair painted red, only the blue eyes remaining.

Glittering with amazement.

Father Alastor took a step back, the fire poker in his hand clattering to the floor moments before he did the same. He stared at the bloody mess before him, memories coming back of days before, pinning a sinner down and thrashing him with a stone. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a foul vision.

It was reality.

This was real. 

Murder, his sensibilities hissed. Murder, you've committed murder. Sixth Commandment, broken. Murderer, murderer, murderer -

Punisher.

Deacon William...he'd sinned even worse. He KNEW what Angelo was like, he CHOSE to do this. He CHOSE to sin.

And he...

...he was just...

PUNISHING.

Father Alastor was just mortally punishing him for a mortal sin.

His stomach lurched, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to stave back the bile he felt burning at his throat. Tears stung at his eyes as his whole body shook, mouth opening to recant his Act of Contrition by reflex, and tasted the tang of blood on his lips.

His head swam hard enough for him to almost pitch forward, save for hands grabbing his shoulders and keeping him upright. He could smell blood and sweat through the haze, turning his head to see Angelo staring at him, the pale gold of his hair and red of blood almost glowing in the firelight, but nowhere near as brightly as his eyes. 

There was silence for a few moments.

"...I ain't done nothin' I haven't been doin'," Angelo said, his voice low and soft. "I didn't invite him in. He came in. I even asked him if he was sure. He said yeah. I ain't done nothin' else 'cept lie on my back."

He went quiet again, and Father Alastor didn't even have to spend long mulling over his words.

Because he knew Angelo was telling the truth.

God help him, Angelo was telling the truth. Deacon William had been in the wrong entirely. 

Father Alastor heaved again, his hands reaching up to clasp Angelo's tightly, almost crushingly so, looking at Angelo almost pleadingly. 

"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls, Amen." 

He reached up, pushing Angelo's hair from the boy's face, his own tears blurring his vision. "...I'm sorry..." he said, his voice thick with bile and guilt. "...it is my duty to protect you...I couldn't protect you...!" His hand dropped before he doubled over, sobbing into his blood-stained hands.

He'd punished the wolf but failed to save the lamb.

After several long moments, he felt Angelo's hands curl around his shoulders, holding quietly and saying nothing.

Nothing for what seemed like hours.

Just how they managed to get the body wrapped up in the sheets and the stone floors scrubbed clean of blood before daylight, neither of them really knew. Father Alastor was working on autopilot, meticulously cleaning the room of any hint of the color red. 

Angelo put the wrapped-up body of Deacon William into a trunk, having expertly folded the body to make it fit. Digging the grave would have to wait until that night, but even so the boy was muttering about needing time to properly prepare for it as he left to bathe the blood off of himself. 

Father Alastor was still scrubbing with black cloth to hide the full extent of the blood on the floor when Angelo came back. The boy stood aside, watching the priest quietly in deep thought. When Father Alastor finally gathered all of the laundry to either dispose of or attempt to clean, Angelo spoke up.

"Why didn't ya ever look at me like that?"

The two stood in silence, not even the morning birds chirping to break the stillness. Father Alastor took a deep breath and let it out, his body shaking from the adrenaline leaving his body. 

"...why do you know these things?" he replied with a question of his own, giving a subtle nod to the chest. Angelo shrugged, crossing his arms.

"Everyone in my family knows how," he replied, his voice bitter this time. "Didn't they tell ya? I'm a mafia boy." He let out a humorless laugh. "Sure, Pops can teach me t' shoot and make a body disappear but fuckin' CHRIST forbid I suck a dick because THEN I'm a fuckin' godless heathen, a demon-possessed little shit!" 

He kicked back at the wall, tears prickling his eyes. "It ain't my fuckin' fault!" he snapped. "If men wanna look at me, they're gonna fuckin' look at me! If someone stronger than me is gonna fuck me, I might as well enjoy it, it's better than bein' hurt for fightin' it!" He curled his hands into his hair, pulling at it. "Why am I th' devil for givin' men what they want but not for rejectin' bein' a fuckin' murderer like Pops WANTED me to be!?"

He slid down the wall, burying his face in his knees. Father Alastor silently set the bloody cloths in a basket before kneeling down in front of Angelo, folding his hands in his lap quietly.

"...your devil," he murmured, getting Angelo's attention. "...what does it look like?"

Angelo's shoulders shook hard, his hands clenching tighter. "...like an angel," he murmured. "Pure white with long arms an' legs. Beautiful. Spread out like it's waitin' for a man t' come fuck it." He sniffled. "...it's th' only thing that don't make me feel like shit...it holds me while men fuck me, makes me feel safe..." He took a moment to compose himself before looking up. "...yours. What's yours?"

Father Alastor closed his eyes, swallowing down the instinctive wave of nausea at the thought of the beast. "...massive. Red. It has deer antlers and a deer skull. Its chest is torn open with..." He paused, swallowing hard, a hand covering his mouth and he went quiet. After some moments, he stood up and picked the basket up again, going to dispose of them.

"You didn't answer me before," Angelo piped up. "...I see it, y'know. Men look at me. Even th' straight ones. Even th' old man here looks at me longer than he has to sometimes. You don't. Why?"

Father Alastor closed his eyes again, letting out a burdened sigh. "...I simply don't," he replied honestly. "I don't see you as anything except a child who needs my help." He looked back at Angelo, russet eyes shining softly with unshed tears. "...and I am so sorry for not protecting you." 

He turned back to the door, leaving quickly to put the pale cloths into the furnace to burn, and the black ones to scrub out to the best of his ability.

So strange, he found himself thinking as his hands scrubbed tirelessly into the reddening water. So, so strange that it was the darkness that hid the bloodstains, that he was able to salvage and save. To use again.

...to use again.

His stomach growled softly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten yet. 

Strange, he thought, considering he felt as though he'd been fed already anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

The disappearance of Deacon William was met with little suspicion on anyone's part. Father Alastor had been with the parish long enough to see a handful of other deacons and priests come and go with only himself and Father Ellis as the constants for three years now. A sudden departure was not the first either had seen, especially after Sister Margaret had her nervous breakdown weeks earlier. 

That fact aside, however, the other two remaining clergy began to notice something almost miraculous. 

Angelo began venturing down into the chapel more often, almost following Father Alastor like a little blond sheep, paying some attention to what the priest was doing with a modicum of interest. Asking questions. Reading what Father Alastor gave to him. 

Behaving.

Angelo didn't sass out Sister Myrtle anymore, nor did he make lewd remarks to either Father Alastor or Father Ellis. He kept mostly to himself, speaking primarily to Father Alastor when needing to.

Sister Myrtle praised it as a miracle.

Father Ellis was stern as always, but his eyes held a softness as he gave Father Alastor his blessing in taking on Angelo's case with enough dedication to bring some change in the boy.

Father Alastor took no praise, little blessing. His health hadn't improved much since his short bout of the flu, especially with his fasting and late-night prayers and contemplation concerning his demon.

Angelo spoke of his own, of an angelic whore demon that attracted men to him whether he wanted it or not. It made Father Alastor wish so devoutly that an exorcism would end it once and for all, but the two Angelo had already subjected himself to proved it would be for naught. It gave the cold impression that Angelo wasn't simply possessed by a whore demon. Angelo WAS a whore demon.

And that put an even heavier weight of realization on his own shoulders.

That beast, that DEMON inside of himself that roared with hunger and blood. That beast that had been with him since he could remember. The realization that it was not a punishment of Hell, not a possession, but himself. It was all himself.

Father Alastor had thrown himself prostrate at the outside altar, breathless with sobbing as he prayed for forgiveness, healing, to be changed from this foul creature he'd been born as. Sometimes Angelo would sit close by to watch, never saying anything unless spoken to.

"Isn't _il Cristo_ supposed t' listen to th' children?" Angelo asked at some point, hugging his knees to his chest. "Or is that just th' ones who were born normally?" He wiped at his eyes. "...y'think I haven't prayed about it? That I didn't ask 'why me'? I was born th' same way as my twin sister. We were baptized th' same day. Took communion th' same way. So why did I end up like this?"

Father Alastor sat next to him, his ever-present smile weary. "...I don't know," he said. "Since my youth, I've endeavored for nothing but the Lord's service. And yet here I am. With this...THING still inside of me."

Angelo hugged his knees tighter. "...y' don't feel anything?" he asked. "It don't feel weird or uncomfortable sayin' prayers or any o' that, even with it inside you?"

"...no," Father Alastor replied, sounding somewhat intrigued by the fact himself. "It never did. I always felt that what I was doing was RIGHT. Although..." His eyes darkened. "...nothing is truly 'right' about slaying men -"

"They deserved it," Angelo said harshly. "They wouldn't have stopped. And they wouldn't have stopped with ME. At least I'm able to ENJOY it in some sick way." His nails dug into his arms, his blue eyes almost black. "I'da killed him myself if I could'a gotten away with it."

Father Alastor raised his hand, hesitating before putting it on the boy's head. "Do not dirty your hands with anything like that," he said quietly, carding his fingers through the pale locks. "You said so yourself. You don't want to go down the path your family wanted you to. So don't start now."

Angelo sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head on his knees. "...hey, Padre. Would ya kill anyone else who touched me here?" He felt Father Alastor's fingers flex into his scalp slightly.

"Without hesitation. Even before Deacon William, that other I...dealt with. He was actively looking for you. On a day you were doing nothing. AFTER he had just had confessional with me." Father Alastor felt a wrench in his gut at the memory. He felt Angelo's head turn under his hand, seeing blue eyes peering up at him through his hair. 

"...see? They deserved it." Angelo scowled at the ground. "People like that don't care 'bout God. They just do whatever they want because they know a priest will make it all go away. Why let 'em hurt more people, when you can send 'em to Judgement after they've proven themselves t' be shit?" He clenched his eyes shut, his fingernails almost drawing blood in his arms. "...yer th' first priest I've met since this started that's actually cared 'bout what's goin' on. Who doesn't look at me like that. Who's REAL an' HONEST about what yer doin'."

Father Alastor made a thoughtful sound, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm certain there are more," he said quietly. "Not that I would venture out to look for them. I shouldn't have to, and neither should you. We all read the same holy book, took the same vows, recant the same prayers. They are the simplest standards to keep."

Angelo nodded. "...wouldn't that be th' thing then," he muttered, standing up and brushing his trousers off. "If angels can be wicked, can't demons be virtuous or some shit? 'Cause...yer th' only person I've met so far who's stuck by what yer supposed t' be doin'. Seems like it that way to me, anyway." He shoved his hands into his pockets, heading back into the parish quietly, leaving Father Alastor with so much more to think about.

"Father in Heaven, I ask only for a sign from You, that it be Your will that this demon can serve You and Your name to cleanse the wickedness from this earth. Angelo has begun to see Your light, and I only want to guide him closer, to restore his faith in You and Your word. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen."

Father Alastor was quietly reading with Angelo when Father Ellis walked in with a man that Father Alastor didn't recognize, but Angelo did. This was the archbishop who had sent him here to this parish months ago.

Angelo was oddly quiet as Archbishop Davis perused over the humble parish and Angelo's progress, and after some time had Sister Myrtle keep watch over him as he had his talk with Fathers Alastor and Ellis about the boy's regimen.

"It was trying, at the very best of times," Father Ellis said honestly. "The boy responded to nothing except with lewd and filth for even his punishments. The exorcisms were in that same vein." He turned to Father Alastor, who was sitting by silently and patiently. "...however, I believe that it was the diligence and patience of Father Alastor that seemed to temper the demon inside that child." His face cracked a very rare smile. "Angelo has not had any outbursts of any sort for some time now. He is even attending services and readings with Father Alastor in his spare time."

Archbishop Davis nodded, turning to Father Alastor. "What would you say the turning point in his behavior would be, Father?" he asked. "Have you treated him any differently?"

Father Alastor just smiled. "I have only treated him as I always have," he replied genially. "With kindness and patience and understanding that he is but a child in desperate need of help and love. I have spoken to him at length about many things, one of which being so many people, clergy included, giving up on him. He needed someone to rely on, to help pull him out of the poison he was drowning in. And I have every intention on continuing his healing here."

The archbishop gave a contemplative nod before asking for Angelo to come in. The boy refused to meet anyone's eye but Father Alastor's, sitting down and clasping his hands in his lap.

"Angelo, have you rejected the demon inside of you? Are you ready to repent for your sins against yourself and others?"

Father Alastor felt his smile twitch, seeing the almost indignant hackles rise off of the boy at the phrasing. Instead, Angelo lifted his head, his earlier tension melting into almost calm serenity as his face went cherubim and almost beautiful, a soaring step up from the mere child Father Alastor had spoken to just hours before. 

"...I'm ready to do whatever it takes to be safe and happy," Angelo said, his voice having a soft uplift with little trace of his New York accent. "And being here...I've found safety. And happiness." He smiled, and although Father Alastor couldn't feel the charm radiating off of the boy, he could definitely see it. "...I want to stay here."

The other three clergy looked almost stunned while Father Alastor merely blinked.

"You...wish to stay here," the archbishop repeated.

Angelo nodded. "I know that my father signed me away to the Church," he said. "I'm in your custody. But I've been happier here...found more purpose and safety here...than I ever felt before. And I know that I can do so much more and be so much better here. So...please. Let me stay here."

There was silence in the room for the longest time before Archbishop Davis straightened up. "...it will be discussed at a later date," he finally said. "Thank you, Angelo. As you were."

Angelo nodded and stood up, allowing a teary-eyed Sister Myrtle to lead him back out. After the door was shut, the archbishop folded his hands on the table before him. "...that is a request I was not expecting."

"I was," Father Alastor said, his smile back at full wattage. "Angelo has expressed how much better he's been treated here than anywhere else in his life. And I think perhaps the city has done him so much more harm than good. Combating the temptations within himself should come first before attempting to take on the rest of the world, and he's shown that he's so willing to work with us on this."

"Perhaps," Father Ellis said thoughtfully. "But isolating him?"

"Not as though city life has done him any favors," Father Alastor retorted. "If he cannot even find comfort in his own family, then what else was there for him back in New York? If it is his education that is a concern, I am more than willing to help keep him up to date. He's a bright child who's been picking up Latin as a hobby. He won't fall behind."

"And having more human contact?" 

"The parish has opened its doors to a good handful more folks since I've come," Father Alastor said. "I have no doubt that there will be more. And there is always volunteer work to be done in the nearby village."

"This is true," Father Ellis said. "A tentative visit then, a supervised grocery run, to make sure he remains out of trouble."

"Marvelous," Father Alastor said before turning to nod to the archbishop. "With your blessing, of course."

Even with the look of reluctant contemplation, Father Alastor could already see the answer in the archbishop's eyes.

"Is it true!?"

Father Alastor looked up from his book, smiling at the bright shine in Angelo's eyes. "Many things are true, Angelo, you would have to be more speci -oh- " He was cut off by Angelo hugging him tightly. "...the official paperwork still needs to be taken care of, but -"

"I get t' stay?" Angelo mumbled into Father Alastor's shoulder, sounding almost desperately vulnerable. "I really get t' stay here with ya?" Father Alastor sighed, smiling softly as he petted through Angelo's hair.

"Yes," he said. "You get to stay." He held Angelo's shoulders to lean him back, looking him in the eye. "But you still have to work, Angelo. I will help you in any way that I can, but you have to truly make an effort." He sighed, his smile just barely there. "Whatever it is we have in us...whatever it is we ARE...it won't define us." He sat back in his chair, letting Angelo's shoulders go. "You wondered if that angels could be wicked, could demons could be virtuous...my life has told me that they possibly can. You have too much of a good heart inside to let wickedness take over entirely."

Angelo lowered his eyes, nodding softly. "...I don't wanna be a whore for just anyone t' use," he said quietly, his hands clenching at his sides. "But I also don't wanna let a buncha hypocrites an' liars keep runnin' around hurtin' people." He looked back up, eyes steely. "You said so yerself. It's basic shit what they know, basic rules o' just livin' a virtuous life. If YOU can do it, then everyone can. And if they can't, then they don't deserve t' keep livin' an' hurtin' other people. I don't care if I end up bein' the last one they hurt, as long as they ain't still around t' keep doin' it again, I'll kill 'em before they keep goin' -"

"No." Father Alastor reached out, pulling Angelo to him again tightly. "No, Angelo. I told you, you won't dirty your hands with blood." His eyes filled with tears. "Becoming a martyr to weed out the wicked..." He let out a soft bark of laughter. "Your ambitions run so high...but we needn't count out all of those eggs quite yet." He smiled, leaning Angelo back again, seeing tears in the boy's own eyes. "For now, at least...let's focus on getting you settled in...figuring out a good schedule for you...making sure you're healthy and taken care of. After all, you can't help others without yourself being taken care of first."

Angelo nodded, wiping his face. "...you too," he said.

"Hm?"

"You need t' take care of yerself too. My nonna would FAINT if she saw how skinny you were, not eatin' right. An' you don't sleep a lot either. Just...y'know...take care o' yerself too."

Father Alastor's expression softened. "...don't worry about me, Angelo," he said. "I'll take that into account. But my fasting is something personal. Something...well...you'll find your own way around things, won't you?" He stood up, kissing Angelo's head before steering them both to the door. "Let's get dinner started. You'll be on cooking duty now, you know."

"Oh no issue there, Padre," Angelo said, giving Father Alastor a grin. "I can cook, just you watch me!"

Father Alastor laughed. "Then show me what you can do."


	6. Chapter 6

Progress was tentative, tedious, and slow, but there was progress to be seen as far as the archbishop and Father Ellis were concerned. 

Angelo remained behaved. He took up supervised volunteer work doing chores and odd jobs around the village, and no one had a bad word to say about him for it.

That is, outside of confession.

Father Alastor kept his vows of secrecy, naturally, but Angelo gave him detailed descriptions of everyone he worked with in the village anyway. There were still words aplenty about Angelo's presence, about how 'tempting' he was despite doing nothing but performing his duties as requested. If Sister Myrtle had nothing bad to say about Angelo's performance, then there was nothing to report on.

Still, there was little to be done without anything having happened to Angelo, and Father Alastor was loathed for that to happen again.

Things came to a head on Christmas day, of all times.

Their small parish was almost full for midnight mass, which proceeded beautifully. Their chapel had never been warmer and more inviting with everyone coming together for this most holy of nights, and the soothing ritual of it all staved Father Alastor of his hunger for some time. 

It still did nothing to temper his hypervigilance, and his eye was kept on Angelo, who was only performing his own duties to the best of his ability, including singing some beautiful hymns that made Father Alastor smile. Angelo had such a lovely voice, but the boy rarely sang. Contextually understandable, but what a gift he had that was going to waste because of the weakness of sinners.

Mass ended, well-wishers met and shook hands and hugged and began petering out into the snowy night. Angelo helped tidy up, shifting closer to Father Alastor in order to murmur, 

"I think there might be someone."

Father Alastor bit down a surge of almost ravenous hunger among the disappointment of this happening on today of all days, giving Angelo a sidelong look. "Are you certain?"

"Almost," Angelo replied, looking just as thrilled about it as his mentor. "James Feldman from town."

Father Alastor's jaw tightened; he'd heard plenty in confession from him. "I see," he said, closing a hymnal tome quietly. "...alright. We prepared for this." He stood up straight. "You remember yourself, Angelo."

Angelo nodded solemnly. "Yes," he replied, then slipped out of the chapel. Father Alastor finished his tidy-up and went to aid the more elderly members of his church bundle up for the cold, insisting they leave with warm meals as well before brushing out the snow from their leaving.

At that point, Sister Myrtle and Father Ellis had turned in for their nightly devotions, the cold getting to their elderly joints. It was no trouble at all for Father Alastor to insist he and Angelo had the rest of it covered, and the parish was soon empty and silent save for the rush of icy wind outside.

Father Alastor made sure everything was in its place, everywhere was clear, before dropping to his knees in front of the altar, clasping his hands tightly.

"Merciful Lord, I pray for strength in cleansing the wickedness from this holy house. May Your judgement fall on this trespasser for his mortal sins, and may Angelo suffer no more from his man's wicked acts. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen." 

He crossed himself and stood, making his way out of the chapel and through the halls, his footfalls silent in the darkness. His eyes and ears picked up every little image, every hint of sound, and by the back corner he had it. James Feldman from the village, almost boxing Angelo against the wall with his arms. 

It put that now familiar wrench of infuriated hunger in Father Alastor's stomach, the priest's eyes narrowing as his hands clenched at his sides, ears straining to hear what was being said. 

" -and all you've done since is flaunt yourself like a whore. It can't even be contained to this place, can it?"

Angelo's eyes were almost glowing with defiance. "If you feel anything, that's all on you, pal," he replied. "If watchin' a teenager shovel snow gets yer rocks off, then I don't know what to tell ya." 

"You know exactly what it is you do," James said, pressing closer. "The least you can do is finish what you started -" He was cut off by hands grabbing around his neck from behind, wrenching him away from the boy and throwing him against the opposite wall with enough force to make his temple bleed. "The HELL -"

"Apt words, Feldman," Father Alastor intoned, staring down at him with eyes that almost glowed in the darkness of the hall. "I would pray that our Lord would not send you there for your transgressions against morality, let alone your wife back at home."

James stumbled around in the dim hallway to catch his footing. "What is...I wasn't even..." His hand shot up, pointing to Angelo. "It was HIM, seducing me -!"

"It is only your own weak morality that leaves you open to temptation," Father Alastor said, taking a half-step to the side to shield Angelo from view. "You know your sins, you know what you are doing. If you cannot temper yourself against lust for a child, then you are only further tainting your own soul."

James's expression went dark, growling at Father Alastor. "As if you're one to talk," he hissed. "Everyone in the congregation can see how he follows you like a little dog. How often have YOU fucked him then!?"

Angelo snarled, making a dive for James only to be held back by Father Alastor. "Angelo, no," he said softly, the harsh twitch to his smile betraying his calm. "I have told you, do not dirty your hands with the likes of him."

"He's fuckin' wrong!" Angelo spat, his cherubim features almost demonic with rage as he struggled against Father Alastor's hold. "I'll tear his fuckin' tongue out for sayin' that about ya!"

"No, you will not." Father Alastor gently pulled him back, turning his head away from James. "Your burden is over, Angelo. Let it go now." He felt another wrench in his stomach at the soft hitching of Angelo's breath, the quivering of the boy's shoulders indicating he was smothering down crying. He ran a hand over Angelo's hair before turning back to James.

"Recite the Act of Contrition."

James scowled at him with a flicker of confusion. "What are you talking about -" His breathing was suddenly cut off when Father Alastor had both hands around his neck in an instant with an iron grip that felt completely disproportionate to the thin frame of the priest. He grasped his hands around Father Alastor's wrists, trying to wrench them free as he stared up at the priest's face, feeling what little air he had left in his lungs leave him.

He swore Father Alastor's eyes were glowing red. That deerlike antlers could be seen even in the darkness. That he smelled open viscera and death.

In a fit of panic, he reached up further, trying to claw at Father Alastor's face to get him to let go so he could escape, run for help, run ANYWHERE but here. 

Father Alastor clenched his hands tighter, pulling James up before slamming his head down against the stone floor, repeating the action again and again until he felt the body go limp in his hold. He slowly unclenched his hands from around James's throat, lifting them up and seeing his fingertips red with blood from the man's split head. 

His stomach was almost completely engulfed by the void that was his hunger, and that was the only explanation he could think of as to why he lifted his fingers to his lips and put them into his mouth.

Father Alastor almost wept at the taste, like drops of pure ambrosia on his tongue that made the beast inside of him almost PURR. Like a low calling rumble that almost shook him down to his bones and made him ache for more.

That hunger. That gluttony. What his demon was aching for.

Was THIS.

He was barely aware of arms curling around his shoulders and holding him tightly until he heard sniffling again, looking up to see Angelo's face buried in his shoulder, the boy shaking hard. He disregarded his hunger for only a moment to reach up and run his now-clean fingers through the boy's hair. "...did he touch you?" he asked. Angelo nodded. Father Alastor's jaw clenched as he gave a tight smile for Angelo's sake. "He won't ever again. He's facing our Lord's judgement now."

Angelo nodded again, lifting his head. "...do you...want help?" he asked quietly. Father Alastor looked down at the corpse on the floor. 

A thin trickle of saliva dripped down his chin. 

"...you've done enough, Angelo. It's my turn now." He turned to Angelo, his russet eyes gleaming ruby in the faint glimmer of light from the other hallway as he leaned down and kissed Angelo's forehead. "Go bathe. Say your Act of Contrition and your bedtime prayers. I will see you in the morning."

Angelo nodded, a glimmer of complete understanding in his own eyes as he stood up and obediently headed off to the wash room.

Father Alastor watched him leave before kneeling down and scooping his hands under James's body, lifting it almost effortlessly as he made his way back to the kitchens, murmuring a prayer under his breath.

"Bless us, O Lord, and thy gift which I am about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen..."

Angelo was ill the next morning, not that Father Alastor was very much surprised. He cheerfully took on care for the boy for himself, bringing up some vegetable soup made from a broth he'd prepared hours ago, smiling softly as he let himself into Angel's room and set the tray down on the nearby table.

"If you're in need of a hot bath later, I'll prepare one for you," he told Angelo, arranging out some things and sitting the boy upright. Angelo gave him a smile through his pale tired features, leaning back on the headboard.

"...it was my fault," Angelo replied. "I took too long in th' cold water...you DID warn me about th' weather an' bein' dressed for it."

Father Alastor laughed softly. "That I did," he said. "But illness happens. I'll have a fire started while you eat." 

"B'fore you do..." Angelo said, reaching under his blankets and pulling out a bundle wrapped in newspaper and handing it out. "...here."

"Oh, and what is this?" Father Alastor asked, taking it.

"Well...it's Christmas," Angelo murmured, his cheeks pink. "...so...Merry Christmas." His pale hands wrung in his lap. "...it ain't much, but...y'know." 

Father Alastor smiled, feeling a soft swell of fondness in his heart as he unwrapped the newspaper, finding a red woolen scarf folded up inside. "Oh my, how lovely," he said, taking it up into his hands to observe it. It was obviously handmade, the stitching was a bit uneven in places, but it felt warm in his hands. "Did you make this?"

Angelo nodded, still looking away. "...Ma taught me ages ago," he muttered. "...Sister Myrtle had knitting stuff...she let me borrow it t' make it. It ain't that good, but -"

"Nonsense," Father Alastor said firmly, looping the scarf around his neck. "It's wonderful and made with your own hands." He smiled bringing over the tray with soup. "...as is this. Now we will both be warm."

Angelo gave him a sidelong smile, taking up the spoon and ladling some broth into it, taking it to his lips for a brief sip before pausing. A short moment of processing darted across his eyes before he closed them, finishing the sip and taking up more. "...it's wonderful," he said, his smile shaky but earnest. 

Father Alastor beamed back, giving Angelo's head a pat before standing to go fetch some firewood for the fireplace. "Be sure to eat it all, Angelo," he said. "Don't let it go to waste."

"'Course not," Angelo said, taking up a small slice of celery. "...might as well be of use in some way." He settled in bed, eating the soup in comfort. Deep down inside him, the tickling purr of his own demon settled in comfort at being taken care of in body and soul.


	7. Chapter 7

God blessed and fortune favored the parish in a way so few had expected over the years.

It began with Father Ellis stepping down from heading the place, and Father Alastor immediately being offered headship by Archbishop Matthew; or, if he'd rather, relocate to a larger parish in Philadelphia.

Father Alastor accepted headship over his parish, and truly it was HIS. He had every feel of possession over the place, felt entirely responsible for every stone that made it up. And the ideas he had for it were nothing short of praiseworthy.

Angelo was in his custody entirely now, the boy's home solidified in the parish. Even if his parents returned wanting him back, it was out of their hands. Angelo even said that he would run away as many times as it took before they gave up if they tried to take him. There was nowhere else on Earth that Angelo would rather be than by Father Alastor's side.

Much like how Father Alastor had decided at age fourteen, so too did Angelo decide on his future with Father Alastor in the small church of theirs. While Father Alastor insisted on Angelo continuing his education, Angelo still considered himself an acolyte of Father Alastor and the church. Anything and everything Father Alastor had to teach him, he learned and applied with every fiber of his being, just as he'd promised. 

Through it all, the plans of expansion in the parish were approved and well under way. Father Alastor wanted to open the doors as a hostel in the expansion for travelers and runaways, having cited his inspiration with Angelo to help even souls that simply pass by.

Volunteers worked hard on the expansion, with Angelo lending a helping hand whenever he could. The boy wanted to be strong enough to aid in whatever endeavor Father Alastor would need of him. He wanted to weed out those whose hands were building a part of the church but would dare to sully it with falling into temptation.

He wanted Father Alastor to be healthy.

There was a noticeable change in Father Alastor's health once meals began being served with pieces of the late James Feldman, even if it was just bone broth or small bits of meat in a stew. James lasted quite a bit tucked away frozen in snow, about halfway through January. Father Alastor's skin retained a healthy glow, his russet eyes brightening and his strength returning.

The hunger of his demon was tempered with each meal.

Eventually, the snow thawed and the remains were dealt with, and there was careful planning for future meals to be had.

And they WERE had.

More to be had, even, once the expansion was complete.

No one ever said that doing the Lord's work would be easy. Those who did were in such a high place of blasphemous privilege it bordered on sacrilege. To serve was to suffer, and to be grateful for it.

Angelo sometimes felt like he'd done his suffering before he even knew what his purpose was supposed to be. He attracted men, and now being older, found that some women were being attracted his way too. He didn't want their looks, their touches, their kisses their bodies pressed against his own, no matter how euphoric it felt, no matter how much it sated that demon inside of him. That WAS him. 

At least that long-limbed creature had the decency to take over and not let him experience what he didn't want to. Ironic and sad that even demons could have more compassion than the pieces of shit humans who would put their hands on a child. 

He could remember when it first happened. He was eleven, and his teacher was paying far too close attention to him, keeping him after classes. He remembered being touched before being enveloped by the demon's arms and shielded aside, almost watching from the inside out as his teacher defiled his body. He felt no pain, only pleasure, and his grades suddenly improved.

Angelo understood what it meant to be a creature of lust that day, and felt that if his teachers, the senior students, his clergy, his father's friends, if any of them wanted something from him, and if he didn't fight back, he could get something in return. A decent-enough payoff, was what he thought. 

He began speaking what his mother bemoaned as blasphemy stating he hated going to church because of the clergy all looking to get their dicks wet regardless. His first exorcism was a joke, the little stint in the Catholic hospital being short after the deacon was caught fucking him. His faith had been shattered long ago, and he felt that anything that these self-righteous assholes could throw at him, he could at least get his rocks off with for his own amusement.

And then he met Father Alastor. 

The man was always smiling, and looked like such a gentle soul until Angelo saw his eyes. Large russet eyes that conveyed something almost blood-soaked and ravenous. Another notch that was to be on Angelo's belt then, he thought, only for days, weeks to go by and nothing to happen.

No lingering looks. No inappropriate touches. Only kindness, only an earnest wish for Angelo to be better.

Angelo began to think the hunger he would see was something else entirely, especially after seeing how thin the man was. A hunger not of the flesh, then.

That night after the storm, hearing an almost demonic chanting of 'REPENT' had him investigating and seeing an absolutely terrible rage and hunger on Father Alastor's face as the priest beat a man's face in with a stone. It was nothing Angelo hadn't seen before. Being a mafia kid had him see more death before age ten than most had in their whole life. But it was also like nothing he HAD seen before. There was something so natural about the way Father Alastor looked killing someone, the russet eyes almost glowing red in the dark as his teeth were bared in a demonic facsimile of his everyday smile.

And still he shouted for the dead man to repent.

Angelo had thought he saw something in Father Alastor when he first met the man, but now he knew. Father Alastor was like him. Father Alastor had a demon inside of him. WAS the demon inside of him.

It was further solidified after Deacon William let himself into Angelo's room, and despite Angelo giving him a definite out, proceeded to do what Angelo had expected in the first place. 

He saw the hunger in the demon reflected in Father Alastor's eyes, and then the rage of the man containing it. Even with Deacon William taking the brunt of the blows, Angelo still felt the force of them, could feel the rage in every blow, felt blood spray over his face and hair like a hellish baptism.

The demon gave way to the man again, and Angelo saw the fear and brokenness of someone who hadn't had let the demon out long. And when he'd pushed the dead deacon off of him to comfort Father Alastor, all the man could do was apologize to him. For not protecting him. All Father Alastor could do was cry and all Angelo could do was hold him.

Angelo never thought he would have found a saint among men, in a priest who had killed two men -for HIM. For the sin of lust towards him. For their weak faith and hypocrisy. In any other circumstance, Angelo would have pointed out the irony of it all, a priest who killed others for their sins. But Father Alastor was different. He stuck by the holy word. He prayed and fasted and sought penance and forgiveness. He put every ounce of expendable dedication into teaching and protecting Angelo, working so hard to restore faith that others tore away.

And for once in his life, Angelo felt that faith returning.

Despite his demon, despite the filth of his young life, despite lingering eyes and hands and mouths that haunted his body, Father Alastor made him feel pure and whole again. The man's prayers and devotion, his understanding, made Angelo believe that there was a place for him here, a feeling that he wasn't completely damned in life for something he simply couldn't control.

And Father Alastor stayed Angelo's hands, refusing to let the boy dirty them further. Angelo never wanted to be a part of his family's legacy, and while he had the knowledge, Father Alastor didn't insist on Angelo using that knowledge to make things easier. And it was enough that Father Alastor accepted Angelo's demon. The absolute least Angelo could do was accept Father Alastor's. 

That included the fruits of their demonic labors.

It worked in perfect tandem between them. Angelo's mere presence would entice the weakest of the faith, the seed of hypocrisy among the worthy, and should that seed sprout, Father Alastor would remove it entirely, and then make some use of the remains as food for the flock.

Everything Father Alastor made was absolutely amazing in a way completely unfitting of one who took a vow of poverty. How the man was able to turn foul sinners of the flesh into a feast fit for royalty was nothing short of miraculous, and he did it all himself. Killing, skinning, flaying, harvesting, cooking. The only thing he allowed Angelo to do was discard inedibles and eat the food. 

"You do more than enough, Angelo," Father Alastor told him. "To ask anymore of you would be cruel."

Not untrue. Angelo did indeed have enough to deal with, his own demon concerned.

It wasn't like he could TALK to it, but Angelo got the general idea that the demon could understand him. Not hard to do when it felt like they were one and the same, but there was a definite difference between them. The demon would 'shield' him from the worst of it at times, and before Father Alastor, would be the one to hold him and soothe him to sleep after someone had their way with him. With Father Alastor taking care of that, AND doing away with the ones who touched him, the demon was left with little else to do.

Angelo could understand Father Alastor's constant penance now; his own demon would sometimes egg him on to take a more proactive role in actively seducing men to their demise. And Angelo would simply not do that.

It was something he and Father Alastor agreed on. That if angels could fall, then demons could ascend. Could do God's work. But a penance of his own didn't come to mind until over a year later.

A particularly aggressive sinner had all but left bruises on Angelo before Father Alastor arrived to strangle the man to death with a length of rope. The body wasn't even done twitching before Angelo threw himself at Father Alastor's feet in tears, begging in confession right there.

"B...bless me, Father, I've sinned!" he wailed, his voice muffled by the floor, blubbering on past Father Alastor trying to comfort him. "I g-gave in! I INVITED him to m-me -"

"Angelo, shh," Father Alastor said, kneeling down and lifting Angelo's head from the stone floor, resting it in his lap. "Shh...it's alright." He pet over Angelo's head, hearing Angelo cry and grasp his cassock and repeat his sins over and over and recite the Act of Contrition almost pleadingly. It took almost a half-hour to calm the boy down enough to get a clear and concise recollection of the events that had occurred.

Father Alastor sent Angelo up to have an early bath and bedtime, giving Angelo some time and space as he strung the man up to bleed out. By the time he tidied himself up and went to check on Angelo, he found the boy still awake, clutching his rosary like a lifeline as he prayed and begged to God for mercy and guidance.

What he came up with wasn't known to Father Alastor for days until Angelo quietly stood by and waited while the priest veiled over the altar cross on Ash Wednesday.

"...I want to spend this Lent in mortification of the flesh. Entirely. In every form."

After a short, private confession and counseling, Angelo received his repentance ashes, the last act of physical touch of another person for the next forty days. 

Father Alastor felt that this was the best way for Angelo to perform his own penance in his own way. A yearly spiritual and physical cleansing, a fasting of his own demon. He respected it well enough that he imposed a five-foot rule around Angelo during this time, keeping his physical distance from the boy and making sure others in their parish did the same. 

For forty days, Angelo didn't feel the touch of another human being. It made his skin crawl and ache, his demon almost screeching for mercy by the fourth day. A lingering touch, a pat on the head, SOMETHING.

Angelo refused. He wrung his grip on his own faith tighter, isolating himself when the itching and inner screaming grew unbearable, and refused to come out, to eat, to sleep, until it died down. He even resisted touching himself for some semblance of relief, entwining his rosary around his hands and praying until the urge passed.

Forty days passed, and Holy Saturday came, with Lent ending at sundown. Father Alastor sat with him at the dinner table, putting a good meal before him, and said nothing as Angelo ate with one hand, the other grasping Father Alastor's sleeve like a lifeline that kept him from dying of his touch starvation.

Starvation as it was, Angelo felt as though he had stronger control over his demon than ever before. Every year, he decided, he would spend Lent in this way. He would abstain and control his demon, control himself, and make sure he would not be felled by a loss of control again.

This was his suffering. His penance. One that he was happy to pay now and for as long as he lived performing God's work with Father Alastor.

Father Alastor did not intend to let his young charge suffer alone. Angelo's mortification meant a forty-day gap in the boy hardly being seen by anyone, let alone touched. To starve off his own demon, he gave up meat entirely for Lent, something the demon wasn't exactly thrilled with.

 _'Suffer then, beast,'_ he told the growling in his abdomen that felt too deep to be his stomach. _'Angelo is suffering more than you, be silent.'_ At the very least, the demon cared as much for Angelo as he did, and grudgingly accepted it; though not with the occasional lurch that made Father Alastor go without food for a day or two rather than choke down the vegetarian meal through indignant spasms.

Father Alastor was certain he had never displayed such theatrics in his life, so why his demon decided to do so was beyond him entirely. 

At the end of Lent, he made a meal for himself and Angelo, using a beef broth to ease him back into meat the same way Angelo did the same with touch by holding onto his sleeve rather than his hand. He was so proud of Angelo, of the proactive approach to control he had in regards to keeping his demon restrained. It only made their dinner all the more satisfying, all the more meaningful, before they would begin their work in earnest once more.

The hostel would not finish building itself. The parishioners would not preach to themselves. And the sinners would not face swift judgement without the intervention of divine punishment. 


	8. Chapter 8

It had been three years since the Ragno family had seen their youngest member.

Molly took no pleasure in her upcoming sixteenth birthday, even less so than her fifteenth or fourteenth. The cloud of depression that had fallen on the little bright jewel of the Ragnos since her twin had been taken reached an all-time low, enough so that her family offered anything they could for her birthday, if only to see her smile again.

And so she only requested that she see her twin. He may have been signed away from the family, but there was a connection with her that went deeper than name. If only once more, just to see him, she would be happy.

It took some weeks, but at last Henri had found the parish in Pennsylvania that Angelo had been sent to and was apparently still at. Henri himself refused to go, and so it fell to Molly and her mother to take the trip.

Molly was a bundle of nerves the entire way there, and she knew her mother felt the same. After all, while it had been her father's insistence on signing Angelo to the church to do with as they saw necessary, it was her mother who had suggested the church in the first place.

"Your brother has demons, _mia dolce ragazza_ ," her mother tearfully told her. "Wickedness is in that boy, and I can only pray forgiveness for whatever I had done to invite evil into myself to infect him."

Molly was shamed to admit she thought her mother was right at first. She had seen the darkness in her twin's blue eyes, the vices he seemed almost gleeful to partake in. When she had finally heard what he had been doing, she had been horrified. Over the past three years, however, her ideals changed. She was older, smarter, and now knew the position of power older men would have had over her brother. To put the blame on Angelo infuriated her now, and that fury only fueled her desire to see him, to hug him and beg for his forgiveness.

From the train station they took a cab into a rural village, and from there it was more than simple to be pointed in the direction of St. Katherine's parish and hostel. The footpath into the forest looked new and accessible, almost like it was paved only weeks ago, and there was a bustle of activity up ahead in the clearing. 

An old stone building forefronted a newer addition behind it, several people around laughing and talking or performing chores in front. It looked like a very open happy place, one that Molly felt couldn't possibly be where her brother would be if he were taken for exorcisms or spiritual cleansing.

"May I help you?"

Molly and her mother turned around, seeing a tall slim man in priest vestments smiling at them with bags in his hands, no doubt from town. It was difficult to even gauge an age from him at first glance; he looked young but had a definite air of years of wisdom about him.

Mrs. Ragno inclined her head. "Father," she greeted. "I am Bianca Ragno. This is my daughter, Molly." She took another somewhat disbelieving look around the open parish. "...we may have the wrong place -"

The priest laughed, the sound full of amusement and near-glee. "Oh no, Mrs. Ragno, you do not," he said, inclining his head to the door. "Please, come in." He made his way inside the parish, where he spoke quietly to someone and gave them the bags to run to the kitchen before gesturing for them to follow him around the side of the chapel to a door leading out to the hostel area. "Angelo! You have guests!"

Molly's breath stilled in her chest, seeing among the group performing chores a young man lift his head, long locks of cornsilk hair almost framing his face like a halo as he took a look at the priest and then behind him, dark blue eyes widening. He dropped the cloth he had been using to clean the windows and hurried over, eyes shining almost like jewels. 

"Mamma!" he laughed. "Molly!" He threw his arms around his sister, hugging her tightly. Molly was frozen for just a moment before hugging him back before leaning away to look at him.

"Oh, Angelo, you're so TALL!" she exclaimed, feeling silly for THAT being the first thing she could say about him after three years apart. Yes, Angelo was tall, and while he was still quite slim he had a definite build of someone who performed manual labor. It looked like he had barely cut his hair the entire time he was gone, the thick locks reaching past his shoulders. He still had his freckles, she noticed, only adding to the almost angelic beauty of his face that only improved with age. 

Beyond all that, her brother was smiling, holding himself almost proudly with happiness and purpose. So completely different from when she last saw him. He almost looked like his namesake.

And for the life of her, Molly couldn't help but wonder if this was too good to be true.

"Angelo, why don't you show your mother and sister around the place?" Father Alastor said. "I'm sure you have much to catch up on -"

"I would actually like to speak with you, Father," Mrs. Ragno said quietly. "If you are not busy."

Molly saw a flicker of disappointment in her brother's eyes, and she swore she saw Father Alastor's smile tighten. 

"Of course. This way, please," the priest said, giving Angelo a nod as he led the way back into the main parish. 

Angelo's expression fell slightly. "...so," he said, "still not welcome home, I'm guessin'?" 

Molly sighed, hugging him tightly again. "You always were with me," she said firmly. "I missed you, Angelo. So, so much. And...and I'm sorry I didn't write or nothin', I -"

"Hey, I get it," Angelo said, petting her head. "Really. I was kinda sent here outta nowhere, didn't have a lot of time to really think about it. But...you're here now." He smiled again. "And it's really great t' see you!" He grabbed her hand. "C'mon, I'll show you what me an', Father Alastor have done with th' place!"

Father Alastor offered tea or coffee to Mrs. Ragno, who graciously accepted. After pouring some out, he sat back in his own chair with his ever-present genial smile. "You wished to speak about Angelo?"

Mrs. Ragno nodded, taking a soft sip of her drink. "...has there been further incident?" she asked knowingly. "At St. Andrew's, there was..." She trailed off with a look of distaste of the past.

Father Alastor nodded. "I am aware of this," he said. "And Angelo's progress was not easy. It wouldn't be, for someone who has been hurt as much as he has." He kept the smile on his face despite her sharp look of disbelief. "So many figures of authority that have taken advantage of the boy. It's sad and disgraceful, even."

"...I am sure you are not downplaying the demonic presence he has -"

"I downplay nothing, Mrs. Ragno." Father Alastor sipped his coffee, unblinking. "Angelo's soul was full of bitterness and wickedness, brought on not by himself, but from the weakness of men around him. I was unfortunate to witness the weakness of those around him myself, but blessed to see the improvements made once he was safe enough to heal and grow." His smile broadened. "He's such a kind, intelligent, helpful boy, and that's not even to say about his rekindled faith in the Lord."

Mrs. Ragno's lips pursed, her hands clasping around her coffee cup tightly. "I would love nothing more than for that to be true," she said hollowly, "but I birthed that boy with a feeling of dread." Her eyes looked almost haunted. "It was only supposed to be Molly. There was no indication of another, not until I was told I needed to push again. I almost bled out birthing him, and he didn't cry until the day he was baptized. Then he cried as though he was tortured and wouldn't stop. Why such evil was put upon me, I still pray for answers every day." 

She put her coffee cup on the table. "Father, I do not know if you have been put under the sort of evil spell the others have, but he is nothing but trouble. He was born a demon, and I only pray for everyone he's come into contact with in this parish...in this hostel you have opened. Whatever improvement you believe he has...I only fear it's just biding its time."

Father Alastor closed his eyes, his smile having lessened to one of gentle patience as he sipped his coffee again before setting his cup down. "I see," he said. "It is certainly troubling that you have these thoughts still. I have seen Angelo struggle with himself, paying a daily and yearly penance with the utmost of his ability. I have blessed him many times, and that was after the two exorcisms he had under this very roof. I found that nothing has worked more than meeting him in the middle and having him acknowledge his past experiences to better make his future.

"He's expressed his desire to stay here and serve God, Mrs. Ragno, rather than pursue any other career or pleasures of what many his age would consider a 'normal' life. I would only ask you clear your vision of his past and see what a wonderful child he is, and the great man he will be come."

Mrs. Ragno said nothing for the longest time, leaving Father Alastor to finish drinking his coffee and temper back his own demon's low call to select her for the dinner of that week.

Molly found herself smiling as Angelo walked her around the grounds. It had been so long since she'd seen his smile, his childish enthusiasm, but it was so welcome and familiar that she almost forgot about the three-year separation. Truly, and sadly, it was his happiness that brought her back to the present.

"Hey, Angelo?" she asked, getting his attention from showing her up to his room. 

"Hm?"

"...are you happy?"

Angelo blinked at the question. "...what do you mean?"

Molly sighed, sitting down on a chair and looking around at the sparse room Angelo called his, it being such a far call from the room they shared years ago. "...it's just...I can't really imagine you being...fully content here," she finally answered. "You were such a free spirit back then. Didn't care what anyone said about you or nothin'. This is just...strange." She chewed her lip, worried. "...I mean...you're not bein' hurt here, are ya?"

"What? No!"

"Are y'sure? Because you can tell me, Angelo. If that smiley priest is doin' somethin' to ya -"

"Stop."

The sharp anger she heard in his voice cut her off entirely, and she saw a heated glare in his eyes she'd never seen before. "You can say that 'bout almost anyone else on th' whole planet, but Father Alastor is a saint among men. Ain't no adult ever treated me like I was a real, actual person until him. Like I was HUMAN." He scowled at nothing, his arms crossed over his body. "...Like I wasn't just some whore. So please." His eyes sharpened. "Don't lump him in with the rest of them."

Molly felt a sudden rush of trepidation overcome her from his short glare before she blinked once and Angelo's expression was almost sad. Angelo sat on his bed, rubbing his arm lightly. 

"...he saved me, Molly," he said, tearing up. "...from my past. From myself. From anyone who so much as LOOKS at me wrong. He's done more for me than anyone else in my life, showed me that there ARE actually pious people in th' world. And I wanna devote myself t' that too."

Molly sat up straight. "...you want to stay here?" she asked.

Angelo nodded. "I asked, awhile ago," he said, his expression going nostalgic. "To stay. I was already signed over into custody...I just asked t' stay here. I've never felt more at home."

"...and if we wanted you back?"

There was a heavy beat of silence. "...Molly, yer th' only one who wants me back," Angelo said at last. "Pops signed me outta th' family an' Ma still thinks I'm evil incarnate. Don't pretend otherwise." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "...and I'm pretty sure Ari doesn't even care whether I'm there or not. So no. I'd rather stay here."

Molly nodded quietly, thumbing away at the dampness in her eye. "...I understand," she said softly. "...so long as you're happy."

"And I am," Angelo said firmly before his expression softened. "You know where I am now. You can write me whenever ya want, and I'll write back. And I'd love it if you could visit!" He stood and walked over to her, hugging her tightly. "But please believe me when I say I'm where I'm supposed t' be."

"I believe you," Molly replied, hugging him back. "I love you, Angelo."

"Love ya too, Molly."

Though they were offered rooming at the hostel, Molly returned to the hotel with her mother in town, both of them quiet the entire walk there. Molly waited until they were in their room before turning to her mother. "...he wants to stay there," she said.

Mrs. Ragno nodded. "That would be best," she said quietly. Molly's hands clenched tightly.

"Don't you even miss him?" she demanded, tearing up. "Didn't you even really LOOK at him? He's changed, Ma! He's so healthy an' happy now! He's doin' charity an' leadin' a good life!"

"Molly, even a demon can wear the face of the innocent," Mrs. Ragno said, finality in her tone, mind made up. "He can lead a pious life of a saint, and still he will answer to Judgement for what he is."

Molly went quiet, not wanting to open that can of worms again. She had her brother's address and a promise to stay in touch.

That was all she could offer right now.

"I'll never be good enough for them, will I?"

Father Alastor's hand pet quietly through Angelo's hair, having felt the boy's turmoil all day and evening, and only just recently had the time for Angelo to decompress.

And by decompress, Angelo bury his face in Father Angelo's knee and cling to his cassock like a child, crying as the last bit of hang-up from his life resurfaced with a vengeance. Old hurts of being given away, abandoned by his family, of his mother refusing to believe that he hadn't been to blame for the sins of the men who had hurt him.

"The ties of family are difficult to navigate and unravel," Father Alastor said sensibly. "My mother encouraged my endeavors, despite her having an inkling of what I was. But she made no effort to keep in touch with me whilst I was in seminary. It hit me hard when she died and I buried her...I thought I was fine with our distance when I wasn't."

Angelo sniffled, his crying finally tapering off. "...does it ever stop hurting?"

Father Angelo made a thoughtful sound. "...with time, it will," he said. "When you see that there is more to family than blood. When you see your purpose is greater than their expectations." He smiled softly. "You're good enough for me, and for our Lord. And you're good enough for you."

Angelo was quiet for some time before he lifted his head, giving Father Alastor a smile. "...th' greatest blessing He ever gave me was you," he said with pure conviction. "...I don't wanna imagine where I'd be if I hadn't been sent to ya. I'd be..." He swallowed hard, closing his eyes. "...I'd be so much worse...I'd..."

"Shh," Father Alastor murmured. "Don't think about it. It didn't happen because you took the initiative to take the right path. You opened yourself to change." He leaned down, kissing Angelo's head. "And at very least, I am proud of you."

Angelo smiled, standing up to allow Father Alastor to do the same. "...thank you," he said quietly.

"You're very welcome. Now, let's go eat. We still have work to do in the morning." Father Alastor led the way out to the kitchen, Angelo tailing behind with barely a thought to the family in his past and the image of his new family before him being the only thing on his mind right at that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really that important, but I'm just imagining Cody Fern when describing a human Angelo. The beauty just fits.


	9. Chapter 9

Angelo knelt on the stone floor, recanting his prayers out as the light outside faded, the sun setting on Holy Saturday to end his Lent penance. His back and shoulders stung from the open wounds of the flagellation he had subjected himself to.

With the years, his age brought beauty, and beauty was his curse. Men were not his primary admirers anymore, and hadn’t been since adolescence. So many times he’d had the hands of women on his body as well, and soon enough lips and breasts that pressed against him, whispers of promises for pleasure. Pleasure he did not want, lust that made him ill. 

But he endured. Evil and weakness were not bound to the men who passed through the territory of their humble parish and hostel, and his duties were much needed to provide for the faithful during the winter months.

The years of his sacred duties took its toll on him, and not just his body. No, his body itself was in the best condition possible to lure the weak and wicked to their rightful justice. No, his mind was beginning to waver, brought on by a new slew of attention that his body was bringing. Even in his youth of budding sexuality, he had no eye for women. No attraction to them. An appreciation for their beauty that he often wished for himself to have, but nothing more.

And now it seemed he was endlessly propositioned. Begged in dark, quiet corners to abandon his place in St. Katharine’s to run away with them. Had hands pulling at his clothes, roaming his body without shame, lips caressing his neck and face.

His demon didn’t care for the gender of what would eventually be a meal, but it did care of its earthly host feeling like a pawed-over child again, skin crawling with distaste and discomfort. So many times, Angelo could feel his demon pull him back in protection as it did when he was a small boy as he felt feminine hands undress him, touch him, and their own dampened sexes envelop his own. He loathed every ounce of pleasure that was squeezed from him, every orgasm that fell into these whores, and it was all he could do to not cry out for his beloved Father Alastor to help.

He needn’t ever had to. Father Alastor was always there, taking a rope or a knife or his own bare hands to the sinners, performing his own sacred duties in slaughtering the sacrifices to the Lord in order to feed the true faithful. And once the duties were done, he tended to Angelo, providing prayers, comforts, and washings to help Angelo calm down. To feel clean again.

Angelo’s disposition changed before one Lent, when he stood within the five-foot rule of Father Alastor and removed his shirt, showing arms and shoulders scratched bloody by his own fingernails, and asked Father Alastor to aid him in furthering his mortification of the flesh.

To bleed out the touches he’d endured from the rest of the year from hands, lips, tongues that made him feel like a leper, he asked Father Alastor to flagellate him during their confessions. 

It took all Father Alastor had not to break Angelo’s five-foot rule after the first time. Seeing Angelo sobbing for forgiveness on the floor, his back covered in cuts and blood from the whip. All the priest could do was kneel in front of Angelo and talk him through the rest of confession and oversee his treatment, all without touching him. 

All while listening to his own demon screaming in his ears at the sight of cut flesh and blood, the beast already in a foul mood from the yearly abstinence of meat from Father Alastor’s diet. 

All while having to see Angelo suffer the rest of the year as the boyish beauty had grown into something positively angelic.

Now, it was the yearly end of Lent, and gone were the days where flagellation had its initial terrible sting. Now it was a release, a fresh start, a lifting of the burden Angelo had carried for so, so long. 

He finished his prayers as he felt Father Alastor kneel next to him with a bucket of hot water, remaining still as the priest gently wiped his back clean of blood, taking care of the deeper cuts. Once that was finished, Angelo heard Father Alastor humming softly, the hymn a comforting one from his childhood, and knew that he now had to endure having stitches.

And endure he did. His body screamed but the screams were nothing compared to the divine first contact in forty days being Father Alastor’s gentle hands cleaning him and giving him the few stitches he needed to end his penance. That too passed, and Angelo felt a hand run through his sweat-soaked hair with kind concern.

“Can you stand?” Father Alastor asked softly. Angelo nodded and took the offered hand, standing upright and smiling down at the priest through tear-clouded eyes.

It seemed like just yesterday, Father Alastor thought, that Angelo barely came up to his chest. That the small, cherubim boy would now be a statuesque man of twenty a full head taller than him, but in so many ways still a child he wanted to care for. To protect. 

It had been seven years since they both began their call to punishment, and still Father Alastor had not allowed Angelo to dirty his hands, to perform more than he already did. Angelo’s beauty was a burden with so heavy a price to pay for it, and still Angelo endured, trusting Father Alastor to be there. To punish the sinners his body took the brunt of their lust for. To take care of him.

And take care Father Alastor did. 

He aided Angelo out of the room they spared for the flagellation and into the bathroom where Father Alastor already had hot water waiting. Angelo stepped out of his threadbare clothes and into the hot water, leaning forward to avoid aggravating his new stitches and letting out a shaky sigh like all of the world’s troubles had vanished.

Father Alastor rolled up his sleeves, washing out Angelo’s hair and combing it through to get the tangles out. “You may be due for a trim again,” he remarked, measuring out the length with it wet as opposed to how the dry waves made it. “Shoulder length was always the most sensible.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Angelo replied with a weak smile, reaching up to flick his finger over Father Alastor’s hair, which in its neglect for two months had the ends almost reaching the priest’s chin. “...when, then?”

“If you’re up for it, we can get it done after the bath, and then we can eat,” Father Alastor replied, rinsing out the younger’s hair. Angelo thought about it, then sighed. 

“...can it wait?” he asked. “Not sure if I’ll be up for anything after a bath.”

“Fair enough.” 

Father Alastor finished helping Angelo bathe before assisting him out of the bath and drying off his back to put on medicine and bandages. He still needed to keep Angelo awake for food, not wanting him to be too weak for mass in the morning, and had Angelo brush out his hair to stay awake while he hurried down to get the food that had been sitting warm and waiting.

It got easier every year now with reintroduction to touch and meat, Father Alastor thought as he carried the food back up to Angelo’s room. He prayed it was finally acknowledging and reining in their demons into something better rather than simply ignoring them. Angelo wasn’t especially clingy anymore after Lent, nor was Father Alastor almost ravenous enough to bite into a flank raw. The simple soup he made as a tradition now at year seven was comforting enough for the both of them.

Angelo’s hair was brushed and he was dressed in a lightweight linen nightgown, ready for food as Father Alastor set it between them, resting his arm across the table for Angelo to touch as they ate.

“...I haven’t really said nothin’ about it,” Angelo piped up after a few minutes in, “but...before Lent, one of th’ girls in th’ hostel had a question.”

“Oh? About what?” Father Alastor felt Angelo’s fingers flex into his arm.

“...she made the usual spiel, y’know...about how it was a shame I was ‘withering away here’ instead o’ bein’ out in th’ world.” Angelo rolled his eyes a little before biting into some bread. “I told her I was happy, an’ she just asked what I’d be doing if I wasn’t here. Kinda haven’t thought about it all that much.”

Father Alastor sipped his soup thoughtfully. “What do you think you would be doing?” he asked, honestly curious. Angelo scoffed, his smile not reaching his eyes.

“Nothin’ good,” he admitted. “If I hadn’t come here...or rather, if you hadn’t been here...for all I know I’d be on th’ streets doin’ who knows what. Or I’d be a part of my father’s syndicate. Maybe worse.” His fingers tightened around the priest’s arm. “...what about you?”

Father Alastor sat back, thinking. What IF his mother hadn’t taken him to church to ‘help’ him? “...I would like to say...at this point, I’d have my own radio show.”

Angelo’s smile became more genuine. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I did tell you I had a love for radio as a child, and during adolescence and early adulthood, I had many tell me I had a voice for radio.” He took a more deliberate sip of his soup. “...however, I was also keen on harming anything weaker than myself. I would...very much likely been a murderer. A senseless killer, a slave to my demon.” He shook his head. “It isn’t something I like to invision.”

Angelo nodded a little. “...I’d be a whore,” he amended to his own ideal. “Anyone for anything. I’d hate myself. But I’d love it. It’s...hard to explain.”

“But I understand.” Father Alastor turned his palm up to hold Angelo’s arm in return. “Although sometimes...I also understand what that young lady is thinking. That you decided to render your body as a receptacle for the sins of others, to weed out those who come here under false pretenses.” He gave Angelo’s arm a soft squeeze. “You put this burden on yourself, and so young. If you left tonight for a normal life...fell in love, made a family...I can only imagine how much good you could do.”

Angelo’s on hold on Father Alastor’s arm was almost shaky. “...if I ever fell in love with anyone,” he said, “it would be you.”

Silence settled in the room at the impromptu confession, Angelo raising his head with dark blue eyes full of nothing but the truth. “...I’ve known what I was since I was a kid. I’ve felt th’ call from my demon through my body even if I never wanted to. Touch from other people makes me react in ways I shouldn’t. That I don’t want.” His hold on the priest’s arm was firm.

“...but you never made me feel that way.” Tears welled up quietly. “...even when I was just tryin’ to get a rise outta ya...I felt nothin’. Even now...it’s…” He sniffled. “...it’s like I’m an actual PERSON, instead of some conduit for sin. Like I can live instead of exist. With you...I never felt an ounce of lust. Only completeness.” He clenched his eyes shut tightly. “...and I thank God every day that I was sent here to you.”

He flinched when he heard Father Alastor push his chair back, fingers almost grasping at the withdrawn arm, but the sob that threatened to tear his chest apart was quelled back down when arms curled around his body and held him tightly. His breath froze in his lungs for what seemed like ages before he could breathe again, hugging Father Alastor back tightly.

Father Alastor held Angelo quietly for some time before he spoke. “It was not an accident what brought you here, Angelo,” he said softly. “You were brought here for a divine purpose. For me to help you. For you to help me. Two demons to follow God’s plan and deliver His divine justice. I would not have seen the true sinful nature of mankind’s hypocrisy if not for you. I dirty my hands so you don’t have to do more than you already should.” His smile wavered softly. “How could you even fathom love for me, knowing what I do?”

Angelo leaned back, reaching down and taking Father Alastor’s hands in his own. “...your hands look clean to me,” he said. “So how YOU can bear to touch a receptacle of sin...after you’ve proven again and again how real you are…” His breath hitched. “...you’re a saint...MY saint...everything you’ve done for me has been a miracle, an’ I feel so unworthy to even SAY I love you -”

“You don’t have to.” Father Alastor leaned forward, kissing Angelo’s forehead. “You show that you do, every day, with every sacrifice. And it makes me try that much harder to be worthy of YOU.”

Angelo tightened his hands around Father Alastor’s, leaning forward to bury his face in the other’s shoulder and cry. Father Alastor reached up to pet Angelo’s damp hair softly, humming his quiet soothing hymn to the younger man for comfort, and vowing to keep proving himself worthy of Angelo’s love and devotion and praying for Angelo to know his own worth in turn.


	10. Chapter 10

Even the best-laid plans, the most carefully-kept hidden secrets, the closest of cards to the chest, were all vulnerable and exposed eventually.

One lapse in judgement, one unfinished piece of business, one prying eye was all it took for everything to come down. Father Alastor and Angelo never found out what it was that did it, but knew that the time had come when Father Alastor felt hackles raise on his demon when the doors to his parish were knocked upon.

Deer-like as his demon was, Father Alastor figured as much that its instincts were pushing at the man to ignore the knocking and leave. But he had his duty, and would not shirk it for anything. He went to the door and opened it, seeing a small posse of police at his doorstep.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said genially, smile still on his face. "What can I do for you?"

Hackles raised further at the sight of more coming up the pathway from town. He calmly told the beast to be silent as he paid attention to the police officers' reasonings. A search of his parish and the hostel. Top to bottom. Including the cellar. 

"Of course, he said, stepping aside to let them in, graciously offering them food and drink as they came in, not at all surprised at their refusal. Inwardly, he was feeling the quivering pull between making his escape and staying. What for, to reason or to fight, he didn't know. His beast didn't know either. 

His ears caught one of the officers making mention of 'the other one', and felt his stomach drop. Angelo. Not Angelo. Father Alastor would submit to paying Caesar's dues while making his case for paying God's dues, but Angelo had done nothing. 

That wouldn't matter to this farce of a justice system, he darkly thought, hands flexing at his sides. They would take one look at Angelo's past and sully the boy's good and fair name with every filthy lie they could come up with. 

"Father, could you tell us where Angelo Ragno is?"

The roaring of his demon was almost deafening his hearing, but Father Alastor smiled through it anyway. "Of course," he said, "I'll show you to him." He led the way for one of the officers down a hall and up the stairs to Angelo's room, where the young acolyte was finishing up laundry. He knocked on the door lightly and stepped in. "Angelo."

His tone did not fall deaf on Angelo's ears, the boy looking up and tensing when he saw the police officer. "...Father Alastor?"

"Angelo Ragno," the officer said, stepping forward. "You're going to have to come with us."

"What? Why?" Angelo's hands shook around the shirt he held.

"You're being taken in on grounds of suspicion for murder." The officer took out some cuffs. "You have the right to remain si -"

Father Alastor grabbed the fire poker from its rack and swung it hard, sending the officer down to the ground. He looked up at Angelo, seeing his boy's face pale as snow with terror and shock, and holding the poker tightly, could only say

"Run."

Almost two days of constant running.

Father Alastor was tired. Spry as he was, he was almost forty and while the spirit was so so willing, his body was weak with nothing substantial to eat. His adrenaline was running out, the terror of pursuit, of being hunted, was dwindling hard. Dozens of times now, he'd told Angelo to run on ahead, to escape like he knew the boy could if he'd just gone alone.

"Never," Angelo said for each and every time, keeping a tight hold on Father Alastor's hand as he kept his pace and drove onward, his quick thinking always finding a place to hide, to climb, to duck under whenever anyone or anything was coming close. 

He was tiring too. Fruitful as the Pennsylvania forests were, there was no time to really eat anything with them on the run. They were both far past familiar territory, only keeping to a stream for a water supply whenever they simply couldn't run anymore keeping them even remotely upright. Even then, it was mid-October. It was cold. Smells were always sharper and easier to track in the cold, sounds easier to catch with the animals hiding away.

There was no time to think of anything except survival. Running. Hoping and praying for a miracle, a path off of their pursuer's trail.

Night was falling again, and their luck was dwindling. The first night they had only been fortunate to have hidden high in a thick tree off to the side for only a couple of hours before the search party went the other way, leaving them to run further into the woods, deeper still into the unknown.

They were now taking a breather, their breath misting in front of them as the sun began to set. It was quiet, but that wouldn't last long. They knew it wouldn't.

Angelo leaned against Father Alastor, too dehydrated to cry even though he so wanted to. "...if we...can just make it to th' mountain..." he murmured. "...we'll....we'd find a way...wouldn't we...?"

Father Alastor squeezed Angelo's hand tightly, kissing the boy's sweat-soaked head. "We would," he confirmed. "Even...if we never saw another human being for as long as we lived...we would make it." He closed his eyes, finally feeling the stitch in his lungs from all the running fade away, his heart rate at last slowing down.

It picked right back up again when in the distance, he could hear dogs howling. 

Angelo heard it too, giving Father Alastor a terrified look. "Father -"

"Shh," Father Alastor said quickly, giving Angelo a tight hug. "Shhh...Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, amen." He stood on shaky legs, pulling Angelo up with him, taking the lead to run again.

He could hear Angelo recanting the Lord's Prayer over and over as they ran, the forest darkening as the sun was set, the sound of the dogs coming up on them. They weren't even certain they were even running anymore; everything felt slowed down and sluggish, dumbed and numbed by their fatigue, hunger, and thirst. All that could be heard were prayers, heavy breathing, dogs -

And a gunshot.

Angelo almost felt his arm leave its socket when Father Alastor pitched forward, nearly taking Angelo with him. Angelo looked back, feeling visceral terror when he saw Father Alastor clutching at his leg. "No...!" He looked around wildly, not knowing which direction it came from and at the moment not caring as he reached down to hoist Father Alastor up, almost over his shoulder, and trek onward.

"...Angelo..." Father Alastor wheezed, the bullet in his leg having almost taken the last of his energy. "...Angelo, my angel...just go...!"

"NO!" Angelo sobbed, forcing his legs to go faster, praying with all his might to keep his footing. "I won't! Not now, not EVER!" He heard another gunshot but it hit the tree to his left, missing him by barely a foot. The sound of dogs were so fucking CLOSE. He could only go blindly into the darkness, praying for that light at the end. "Just...just hold on...we'll get there, to th' mountain, I pro -"

Another gunshot rang out and Angelo felt air leave his lungs as a sharp pain struck his back, sending him right to the ground. He laid there breathlessly, trembling from the shock as Father Alastor reached out, blindly groping for his hand, glasses having been lost back with his own gunshot wound. 

"...Angelo?" Father Alastor murmured, his voice shaking. He could hear wet wheezing from Angelo, could smell blood from the wound. "Angelo!"

"...F...ather..." Angelo sputtered, blood being pushed up from his pierced lung. His hand felt Father Alastor's and blindly grabbed at it, clinging tightly. "...I...I'm sss..."

"Shhh," Father Alastor murmured, holding Angelo's hand firmly, somehow having enough tears to shed. "...it's okay, Angelo...my Angel, it's okay..." He leaned his head forward, kissing Angelo's cold hand, disregarding the sound of dogs and a posse approaching. "...O Lord God, I hope by Your grace...for the pardon of all my sins and after life...here to gain eternal happiness because You have promised it who are infinitely powerful...faithful, kind, and merciful. In this hope...I intend to live and die. Ame -"

The completion of his prayers were interrupted by the dogs falling upon him, and he instinctively pulled Angelo closer to shield him from the beasts as best he could. The teeth and claws tore his clothes and his flesh, barely able to see the same happening to what he couldn't shield of Angelo's body, and it went on for less than a minute though it felt like an eternity before the posse approached and called the dogs away. 

Father Alastor shook with agony and fear, his prayers of Angelo possibly being spared that pain being unanswered as he could still feel the boy trembling in his arms, letting out blood-gagged cries of pain. Words from the posse were spoken above them, lantern lights shone down enough for Father Alastor to see the blurred features of Angelo, blood in the boy's hair, coming from his mouth, eyes wide with shock and pain. Father Alastor inhaled sharply through the pain, opening his mouth to take all of the blame, to take ALL of Angelo's sins on for himself, when he felt hands grab him and attempt to separate him from Angelo.

And the demon inside of him couldn't be silent anymore. 

The forest shook with the force of an inhuman scream that tore from Father Alastor's body, one of hunger, rage, agony. It terrified every living thing to their very souls, despite its brevity, and nothing but silence fell when it was gone. Only Angelo was unafraid, his hand clasping Father Alastor's as tightly as he could, though he could feel the last of his strength waning. Father Alastor tightened his hold on Angelo's hand, refusing to let go for anything.

Neither heard the posse around them make a brief deliberation about their conditions and likelihood of surviving a trip back to transport. Of even a likelihood of them actually surviving not being worth the horrors they had discovered in the cellar of the parish. 

Neither heard the sound of two riles cocking back, only looking at one another for strength and comfort as two shots simultaneously rang out.

And then both fell into darkness.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Father Alastor opened his eyes, and he could see, clearly for the first time who Angelo was.

An angel.

Just as the boy had described himself; a pure white, long-limbed beautiful creature. Father Alastor would say he resembled a spider somewhat. Fitting, the angelic creature pulling sinners into his web, he thought with a smile, reaching out to touch Angelo's face. 

Angelo leaned into his hand and opened his eyes, three smaller ones under each opening as well as he looked in front of him. Father Alastor's saintly features, framed by red and black fur-like hair, small black antlers nestled within the locks. Something softer, more familiar of what his mentor spoke of his demon to be, and a hundred times more beautiful. He rolled his shoulders -finding he now had three sets of them- and found that he felt no more pain. 

All well and good, but seeing their demons...no...they WERE their demons...it meant...they were...

He teared up, his breath hitching tightly in his chest. He buried his face in his hands -tipped with claws now- and cried. 

Father Alastor's smile fell just a smidgen, reaching out to pull Angelo to him, feeling ears atop his head rotate as a deer's would, instinctively listening out for danger. "Angelo, my angel," he murmured, petting over a feather-light furred back. "Don't cry."

Angelo shook his head. "...my fault..." he whimpered. "...we're...it's my fault we're -"

"No, Angelo," Father Alastor said firmly, leaning back to take Angelo's hands from his face. "You did nothing wrong." He leaned in, kissing Angelo's head before sitting upright and looking around. A lot clearing in a city, it seemed, dark enough around them that there was red illumination from a demonic circle in the sky, its light akin to always being looked upon. He looked at himself, seeing that no earthly possessions had been brought with either of them, only a skinny body, almost death-paled, with red and black fur covering his chest, collarbone, and shoulders and further down his legs below the knees, ending in deer-cloven hooves.

Angelo was completely covered in downy fur that gleamed like halo light in the dimness, it being more generous on his chest and abdomen, possessing six arms and long, shapely legs with feet that resembled a large spider's. A spider indeed, as Father Alastor himself was the deer beast he had come to know and become. Angelo sat up with him, looking around with all eight eyes with a sense of dread, but a flicker of quiet wonder. 

There was no doubt that they were in Hell, but a different one than either had anticipated entirely.

"...it reminds me of New York," Angelo said softly. "...th' city."

"Mm," Father Alastor hummed with a nod. "Pittsburgh, from what I saw on the train. A city...with others like us." He looked at his hands, seeing that they had longer fingers tipped with claws instead of nails. "...and yet...I feel no different."

Angelo frowned, looking at his own hands, all six of them. "...me neither," he replied. "...this is new, but...it's not. I don't even feel different...inside." He put a hand to his chest. "...is that weird?"

Father Alastor took a moment to feel, and smiled. "No," he said, "it is not." He stood up, not even feeling awkward on his legs, like he had possessed hooves his entire life, and helped Angelo stand as well, seeing the boy still towering over him as he had come to for years now. "It means, my Angelo, that the Lord has not forsaken us."

He felt a swell of something in his body, like a grasp of power that had always been there but was now TANGIBLE. Malleable, at last. He clasped Angelo's primary hands in his own, his smile widening. "We still feel the power and glory of God, Angelo. Nothing has been lost to us but our earthy bodies. We still did God's work with the souls of demons...and even as angels can fall, demons can ascend!"

His red eyes glowed brightly, and in a wisp like a large flame his familiar cassock materialized over his body like brand new. Angelo smiled, his eyes tearing up as his heart sang; he HADN'T been abandoned at all, he was still the same as he'd always been. But newer. BETTER. He let out a soft, shaky laugh, feeling his own familiar acolyte vestments appear on his own body before dropping to his knees. Father Alastor followed suit, smiling wide. "My dear Angel," he said, "we have so much of His work to do." He closed his eyes before lowering his head in prayer. 

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth,and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended into Hell; on the third day he rose again from the dead; he ascended into Heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from there he will come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen."

Angelo spoke the prayer with him, and around them the ground began to shake softly with reverberating of their voices, and new power was awoken to the denizens and overlords of Hell, though they didn't know where it was coming from. Or worse, WHO it was coming from.

When Pentagram City awoke, every one of them was stunned to see jutting up from the very center, in a desolate lot left barren from a grand holy attack, was an absolutely massive black cathedral that spanned the entirety of the area, leaving scarcely two streets and a sidewalks' space around it.

A cathedral of all things, in a place like this, was something that fascinated and terrified every soul who looked upon it. Actual days went by before a few of the more curious, foolishly brave souls dared to venture to its doors and creak them open.

Inside they found such a large but simple structure with plenty of space, for the entire city it seemed. Most identified it as Catholic in nature and were somewhat amazed they didn't burst into flame on immediate arrival. 

Into the chapel, before the pulpit, was a tall demon wearing a black priest's cassock with red cinctures, matching perfectly with his red hair and ears tipped in black and deer antlers curling from his hair. Pence-nez barely concealed his red eyes as he looked at the newcomers, smiling widely and invitingly at them.

"Welcome!" he greeted, being joined by a tall beautiful demon all in white and gleaming like an angel at his side. He turned to the other demon, red eyes glowing with excitement. "My dear Angel, it appears we have sinners to redeem!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a very short epilogue and some little notes coming next!


	11. Chapter 11

Word spread above, of the beloved priest and acolyte being outed as murderers and cannibals that fed human flesh to those in the hostel, all the way even to the international section of the New York Times newspaper, where Molly Ragno had spotted the segment whilst eating breakfast and suddenly became catatonic with shock and disbelief. 

The dog-mauled and shot-up bodies of Father Alastor LeBlanc and Angelo Ragno were taken to the closet town, where they were given no rites and pauper's burials in the forest, no grave markers to indicate they had ever existed in the first place. Even a year down the road when Molly felt that she had to see, to KNOW, no one could tell her where they were, and she feared the loss of her faith entirely knowing she'd never see her brother again.

Which was not entirely true.

Hell's Cathedral, as it came to be called, was a new landmark and a staple of Pentagram City, whether anyone wanted it to be or not. Overlords aplenty attempted to tear 'the eyesore' down to no avail. The structure itself could scarcely be harmed, and the demons inside...

Were they to agree to the terms, there was no doubt that they would definitely be considered overlords themselves. The few who went into the cathedral and came back out spoke of a priest who preached as he would alive, welcoming any and all to join him and his companion in redeeming themselves of Hell, as was the will that God had given them.

Ridiculousness, some demons spat. There had been cult leaders aplenty who had come and gone in Hell's unmerciful circles, and they were always dealt with accordingly either by Exterminators or overlords with holy weapons themselves. These two would be no different, they thought.

They thought wrong. So very wrong.

The first Extermination came, and the priest had opened his doors wide to anyone seeking shelter. Few took up that offer, and many saw the Extermination angels peruse the cathedral and some even go inside.

Those that did, did not come back out.

A demon who had used the cathedral as a shelter took to the streets, beating his breast and crying praises of the 'miracle' he had witnessed. The priest and his companion stood before the Exterminator with open arms, joyfully recanting scripture, when the Exterminator had pierced through them with its spear, only to falter when the attack did nothing. The priest's joy turned to anger as he grabbed the spear in turn and used it to lance the Exterminator, shouting about it being 'fallen', with no right to stand before God once more in Heaven before turning to the others.

Those within the cathedral remained unharmed, through wide open doors and three dead Extermination angels crucified outside the day after.

Demons who spoke the scripture, remained unharmed by holy weapons, killed angels without effort. To a small demographic in the Pentagram, it spoke to them, moved them to enter the cathedral looking for what was being freely offered.

So very, very few ever left, just enough for the new legends to be given names.

The Demon Priest and his Acolyte.

They never left the cathedral, keeping themselves and the small handful of followers inside safe, loved, faithful, and healthy. Some demons came in, and did not leave for other reasons they quickly learned. 

Angelo, the Acolyte, was a beautiful demon. Merely watching him perform his duties was irresistible to a good number of demons, who had no qualms about attempting to tap into the well of pure lust they felt coming from him. Those who laid hands on Angelo, who touched, kissed, and even attempted to use force, quickly found themselves at the nonexistent mercy of the Demon Priest.

"You come into God's house with sin as your intention?" Father Alastor hissed, his eyes glowing red, his aura screaming of beastly hunger. " _'Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth He any man: But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.'_ " His hand extended, and a holy spear appeared in it. 

"Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord, amen."

They and their faithful flock ate well.

Through the years, a blessed few came and remained, some in different ways than others. 

A small young lady scampered in out of the rain, and began tidying up the water tracks, any speck of dust, in exchange for some reprieve from the unforgiving outside. Young Niffty, it was, became the cathedral's caretaker, making sure the place shone, and asking for nothing in return.

Years after that, an old cat demon with wings stumbled in, drink in hand, and sat in a back pew in silence. Father Alastor sat next to him, addressing to the demon's intentions and faith.

"Lost my faith a long time ago, Padre, along with my heart," the cat grumbled, a tinge of sadness under the gruff. "Hell is where I belong, but I appreciate peace where I can find it." He sat in silence for hours, long after he finished his drink, and Father Alastor remained by his side, smiling softly waiting for the other demon to act or speak on his own, until the cat fell asleep.

Husk awoke in a simple bed, with no sickness or hangover or pain for the first time in years both before and after his death, and both Father Alastor and Angelo were there to greet him.

"We are a house of God," Father Alastor said with a smile. "A home for those in need. Stay for as long as you wish, friend, and faith or no, consider opening yourself to the Lord." 

Husk did stay, intending for another day. That turned into two, then a week, looking at how this supposedly 'divinely cursed' place operated, waiting for the catch. But it operated like a normal church, only a small handful there as non-parishioner workers, like the small demon girl Niffty, who took care of everything from cleaning to laundry. 

Father Alastor and Acolyte Angelo ran the place, that was for certain. Husk had been here long enough to smell a lust demon when he spotted one, but the angelic spider did nothing to entice anyone, merely performing his own duties with care and dedication. Husk could see the lustful eyes of others though, of newcomers who either didn't know better or didn't care. He witnessed a bat demon pursuing Angelo with foul intent and intervened himself, snarling with wings splayed and ears flattened, telling the damned creature in no simple or non-profane terms of how fucked it was to do something like THAT in a place like THIS.

It was also the day Husk saw what made the 'Demon Priest' so feared. Father Alastor was upon the bat demon in an instant, a creature of pure righteous fury as he demanded the bat pray for forgiveness as he was pierced through with the holy spear. Giving it a flick to splatter the blood off of it, Father Alastor turned to Husk, eyes aglow and beastly smile turning soft.

"You have every right to be here," the priest told Husk as he extended out his free hand. "There is righteousness in you, Edward Husker. Do not let such a temporary punishment be made permanent with hopelessness. Seek salvation with us."

It might have been the high of doing something good after years of doing nothing, or the pure conviction in Father Alastor's voice, but Husk felt himself reach out for the extended hand and take it.

He was made privy to everything. To 'God's work' Father Alastor and Angelo performed in weeding out the worst and most irredeemable, showing that those who came and truly tried and had been for years was proof enough that for many, Hell was a harsh 'grounding' of God's children, and that they could work for true redemption someday. Those who did not would simply be sustenance fr the faithful.

It might have been the evil inhuman terrors of Vietnam and the unscrupulous sin of Vegas where he'd grown up, seeing the worst mankind had to offer, but it made enough sense what the Demon Priest and the Acolyte were doing that Husk couldn't help but believe too.

He wasn't convinced that he'd be redeemed, but he'd be twice-damned if he'd let anything happen to those who were really trying.

With almost no one leaving the cathedral, word of mouth for what went on inside became almost a whisper that was drowned out among the sin that only grew around Pentagram City, new vices being invented and brought down every year, and bringing the Exterminations with it. Hell's Cathedral was simply a tall landmark for most, something to ignore as most had done in life when not concerned with faith of any kind. Mostly those old enough to remember that one fateful Extermination display recalled the legend of the Demon Priest and his Acolyte crucifying three Exterminators before it seemed even Heaven got the hint and left the cathedral alone.

Life went on, outside, and in.

Father Alastor hummed to himself as he helped Niffty mend some clothing, being more than capable of doing it with the power within him, but finding such a thing to be slothful and inexcusable when he had his own two hands to do so himself. He listened to the radio that he had been gifted with by dear Husker some years ago, intending on keeping up with Hell's news, as horrendous as it could sometimes be.

 _"Welcome back!"_ came the sound of that she-devil Katie Killjoy. _"So, Charlotte -"_

_"It's Charlie -"_

_"Whatever. Tell us about this brand new passion project that you've been incessantly pestering our news station about!"_

_"...as most of you know, I was born here in Hell, and growing up I always tried to see the good in everything around me. Hell is my home, and you are my people. We...we just went through another Extermination. It breaks my heart to see my people being slaughtered every year, and no one is even given a chance! I can't stand idly by while the place I live is being subjected to such violence! So, I've been thinking...isn't there a more humane way to hinder overpopulation here in Hell? Perhaps we can create an alternative way to change souls through redemption? Well that's what this project aims to achieve! Ladies and gentlemen, I'm opening the first of it's kind! A hotel that rehabilitates sinners!"_

Father Alastor's eyes gleamed, smile a mile wide as he stood up and headed out of the room with urgency in his step. "Angelo! Come, we're going out!"

Angelo stood upright, eyes wide. They hadn't gone outside of the cathedral as far past the gate since they arrived in Hell. "Out? Where to?"

Father Alastor beamed brightly, summoning his holy weapon that was more stylized as a crosier now as he held out his hand for his Acolyte to take. 

"To someone whom I believe could use our guidance for the right path for ALL!"

Charlie Magne pressed 'end call' on her phone and walked back into her Happy Hotel, drying her eyes as more tears threatened to flow. Through her disappointment and her dwindling faith in her dreams of a better life for all denizens of Hell, she found herself closing her eyes and praying.

 _'If you're really there,'_ she thought, _'please, send me a sign that I'm doing the right thing.'_

There was silence.

And then a knock at the door.

* * *

I had inspiration for this fic's two primary locations from these places!

St. Katharine's Parish was inspired by the Ancient Chapel of Toxteth, seen here:

And the Hell's Cathedral was VERY much inspired by this beauty, Liverpool's Anglican Cathedral:


	12. Fan Art Page!

I just HAD to put this wonderful piece illustrated for me here by the ever-wonderful [Lumina Xandra](https://luminaxandra.tumblr.com/)! The whole story captured perfectly in four pieces.

These lovely pieces by [The Socially Awkward Cat](https://the-socially-awkward-cat.tumblr.com/), with Angelo and Father Alastor's demons!

And one of my own pieces for the two of them!


End file.
